Craig was one of the more attractive members of staff and although he had flirted with nearly every female in the firm it was Megan who had managed to catch him. It had begun as stolen glances in the office and at the party they had shared a bottle of lacklustre red wine. A couple more drinks and their laughter had got louder and their conversation softer. Soon they were outside kissing as if they were kids in a park after a bottle of cheap cider. Slightly dishevelled, they had gone back into the party and made their goodbyes, delaying their leaving by five minutes so no one would know they had left together. Of course everyone did; the lipstick smear on Craig’s ear and the fact one of the more jealous secretaries had seen them outside ensured that the information and some slanderous rumours had travelled around the hotel conference room within minutes of their departure.
Ordinarily Megan wouldn’t have taken someone home on a drunken whim. She told herself she wasn’t that type of girl but a couple of incidents whilst studying at university in Chester suggested otherwise. Craig, she thought, was different and she was hoping that there would be more to their relationship after that one night. He was just happy to be going home with arguably the most attractive woman at the party, well at least of the unmarried variety and someone he hadn’t already slept with.
The taxi driver, Larry Davis, tried not to look at the heavy petting that was going on in the back of his cab as he drove through the quiet streets towards Megan’s home. It had been a long shift for Larry, having had to clean out the car when some girl had vomited on the way to the city. One of his fares had tried to make a run without paying as well but his experience had made sure he got what little cash the boy had on him and a stop at a cash machine ensured the rest. He would still be working till sunlight filled the sky and was just happy that the couple still had their clothes on.
Megan lived with a friend in Rakspeath, not the best of places but the house was cheap when she had bought it and Pamela paying rent helped towards the mortgage. Pam was visiting her boyfriend in Milton Keynes that weekend so Megan was delighted she would have the place to herself and Craig.
Larry pulled up at the top of her street under his passenger’s orders. Megan was in a good mood and tipped him generously. He drove off, barely noticing the passing black car. The vehicle slowed to a halt before the new couple who leant on each other in drunken revelry.
The driver rolled down the passenger side window and called out to them asking for directions. Megan was startled at first that someone had broken the focus of Craig who had been delicately stroking the bottom of her chin and staring into her eyes as they had walked. Craig, seeing no harm in showing his chivalrous side to Megan, moved over to the window to offer assistance even though he knew nothing of the local roadways.
He put his hands on the car door window and looked at the driver as best he could; his eyes adjusted slowly, not recognising the shape of the revolver till it was too late. The driver was clever enough to wear ear plugs so as not to hurt his own eardrums when he pulled the trigger, the first shot hitting Craig in the chest just off the heart. The second bullet went through the left eye socket ruining the deep blue eyes that had enticed Megan so.
She was shocked into standing still at the sight of Craig falling backwards before she let out a deafening scream. That seemed to jolt her body into action and she began to run forward which afforded her some safety as the driver’s next shot narrowly missed her, instead travelling through a fence and then a shed wall to end up in a bag of fertiliser stored there.
The driver had to step out of the car firing over the roof to try and hit the fleeing woman who took a round to the hip spinning her to face her attacker, her new expensive high heeled shoes catching on the uneven pavement sending her crumpling to the ground. Moving closer to the fallen accountant who lay pleading on the cold floor, another shot rang out passing through her right middle finger, nearly severing it, and into her stomach.
The wound would be enough to kill her, the amount of blood soaking the close fitting black dress and the puddle forming on the concrete suggested that, but there was a sixth and final shot. It was aimed at her head but in her thrashing it ended up destroying her throat. The light in her eyes dimmed, the last thing she saw was the body of the man who would have been her lover.
Chapter Thirty Four
I woke at midday feeling refreshed and in some way looking forward to the evening’s entertainment. It had been too long since I had been out to a sporting event; once upon a time I had gone nearly every week to some sort of match. I’d been lucky enough to watch some great boxers in Manchester, the rise and fall of Ricky Hatton a particular highlight to a fellow member of the city. Still it was going with a few friends and my then fiancée to the watch Joe Calzaghe at the start of the century that I remembered fondly. His career lasted longer into the decade than my relationship with the fat bitch did.
I ordered breakfast to my room and the racing and newspapers. Eating my fried breakfast and making some selections for the day, I was aware my phone was ringing. I’d put it on silent to ensure I wasn’t woken any earlier than my body wanted and looked at the number of missed calls from Camille Jarvis. Four different calls from her and over seventeen from the voicemail service which annoyed me since I hated going through the ‘push this button now’ rubbish of automated messaging systems.
Ignoring her attempts at communication I turned on the television to the sports news channel. Finding a hotel with satellite television was normally a high priority for me, so I could enjoy the sports late at night. It was only an hour or so later when I changed the channel to the news station after the excellent commentator talked about the problems in Liverpool and the hope that the football teams could help alleviate some of the peoples’ worries. He also mentioned the increased police presence at the Everton game in case of anymore shootings.
The shock of seeing the latest shooting filled me with regret for not being more vigilant. The murder of the couple was something completely different to the rifle killings but close enough to suggest a link to the second shooting. It had me wondering if what had been thought of as retribution killing to the Boulton slaying was linked to the others. Until now all of the victims had been drug dealers or related to them but this couple had no connections to anything illegal in any part of their life which stuck out like a sore thumb.
I skimmed through the news channels, watching as the press began to turn on the police force, saying how the manpower visible on the streets had been relaxed due to the death of Leo Ambrose. So-called experts on gun violence and drug crime gave their opinions on what had happened and how the police should have remained in a presence in the suburbs. I understood the problems they faced more than others and my sympathy went out to the press officers that would be frantically trying to defend the actions of superiors. It would be a tough month at least before the fury diminished and also probably meant lasting damage to the people of Elsworth and Rakspeath trust in the police.
My phone buzzed again; I’d forgotten about it as I’d watched the news reports and scanned through articles on my tablet. I answered the call, “Hello?”
“Harper it’s hit the fan here,” DI Spencer said, “and God knows I don’t want to call you for help but you were spot on the money with Ambrose. Have you got anything on this one?”
“I’m flattered you ask Spencer, but I’ve only just been made aware of this.”
“When they brought you in after Ambrose was shot you said that he was most likely linked to the Boulton shooting. The two dealers killed in their car was retaliation we thought for that but this is so unconnected it’s got us grabbing at straws. People are looking at me for answers since I’m the one who came up with Ambrose’s name and since you’re the one who gave me that in the first place, I’m coming to you.”
The way he spoke suggested that he was wary of using me again and also slightly suspicious but I expected that from Spencer, “Like I said, Ambrose was a name given to me by friends at a rifle club. I know it’s aga
inst regulations but I’m still technically working for the force so run through what you’ve got.”
Spencer exhaled loudly before reluctantly going through the information, “We’ve rushed the ballistics and it’s the same weapon used in killing the two drug dealers earlier in the week. Both men had ties to the Rakspeath crew and were shot close range, we never released the more gruesome information but they both died quickly from multiple wounds. Two hit the passenger and three in the driver.”
“Five shots?”
“Six. As far as we can tell a revolver, six shots fired which means no shell casings on the scene. The sixth bullet went through the passenger window.”
I tried to picture the scene in my head coupled with the memory of images seen in the papers and news around the time of the shooting, “Spencer, do you want my help on this? I mean actually owe me a big favour because you can’t hire me as a consultant.”
“You’ve done a lot of gang violence work, you’re something of an expert.”
“Cut to the chase.”
“Yeah.”
“Right, fine. I need to see the crime scene photos. I need to know what you have. I’m working on secondary and tertiary information here. Again I know it’s not what you want to hear and could get you in a lot of trouble but I can help.”
On the other end of the line, Spencer must have been weighing up the pros and cons of getting me involved. With the way the shootings had taken over the suburbs of the city, the top brass would be putting the pressure on everybody, “I’ll get make some copies of stuff and meet you. After the stunt you pulled in chasing down Ambrose I doubt it would be a good idea having you come into the station.”
“Fine, you know where I’m staying. Bring me something nice, Spencer, or I won’t let you in the door.”
Chapter Thirty Five
The information and pictures Spencer provided were stomach churning but not enough to stop me eating the jam doughnuts he had also brought. He must have thought he was being funny with the chosen pastries but I was more than happy to eat them, delighted that the filling was not custard, even though I’d had a few close calls with errant preservative trying to drop on my black suit trousers and light blue shirt. I went through the statements of the first men on the scene and then the pictures detailing the position of the bodies in both cases.
Sitting cross legged on the bed sipping my Assam tea, I ignored Spencer who had been pacing up and down and trying to talk about the case for at least thirty minutes. I had wanted more information not his summations. He looked haggard, more so than usual, and his brown suit was crumpled as if he had slipped it on this morning without hanging it up the night before.
“Okay then Spencer, let me tell you what I’ve got. Firstly, time wounds all heels.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“Her shoes - the heel snapped, it’s an old saying my grandmother told me it when I was a kid,” I dismissed the look of dismay on his face with a wave of the hand, “Anyway this first shooting was more professional and I think staged somewhat.”
Spencer frowned, “In what way?”
“The shooter went to the driver’s side window as if passing from the driver’s side of another vehicle. The first victim, Walsh, rolled down said window as if he were talking to someone. You say these two were known drug dealers, well it’s safe to assume that whoever killed them gave them reason to believe that they wanted to buy some narcotics. The first shots kill Walsh and then the triggerman fires at Gerald.”
“Nothing we don’t already know.”
“True but when the officers drove up they saw the two men leant together as if talking to one another.”
“And?” Spencer said once again becoming exasperated by me.
“And Gerald wouldn’t have ended up in that position from the shots that killed him. The one to his head would have snapped his body the other direction. There’s also the matter of his hands.”
Spencer shook his head, “Cut to the chase.”
“Fine, his left hand should have been on the door handle. The blood spray pattern suggests it was at first but if you look at the crime scene photos, it is in his lap. Head tilted inwards suggests to me that the gunman fired, hit the man and had the coolness to stage the scene afterwards so at first glance no one would suspect there had been a shooting,” I told him, standing from the bed and filling the kettle from the bathroom sink, somehow avoiding Spencer in the cramped confines of the room.
The detective was looking at the picture indicating what I had said, “Surprised no one noticed it,” he managed peering closely at the door trying to see the telltale signs of blood splatter.
“Not the easiest from the photos and it may have just fallen, but why? In my opinion it was because the body was moved. The bullet that missed the man, what does the trajectory suggest to you?” I asked whilst the kettle boiled, handing him a couple more photos.
Spencer shrugged off the question, “Gerald got lucky in not having another bullet in him.”
I shook my head in response, “Could be, but from the angle I’d say it was a deliberate miss. I could be wrong, probably am, but I think this guy was more professional than that especially since he hit Gerald in the head.”
“He wasn’t that professional in the second shooting.”
“That’s the thing, I don’t know if our unknown shooter pulled the trigger last night. Tunney died pretty much the way you would expect if someone had shot him from a car. Every shot from there on out was sloppy compared to before. The shot to the stomach is easier as it is a large target but it’s also excessively violent. Now of course a moving target is harder to hit but once the first shot hit her and she stumbled, she was at the mercy of her killer. Instead of one to the head or the heart it was two shots the first of which probably would have taken her life anyway,” I said, whilst pouring the boiling water into my cup.
“So you’re saying we have two shooters but the same gun.”
I played with my stubble goatee and sat back down with another cup of tea, “Wouldn’t be the first time a gun was used to commit more than one crime. It could have changed hands within a week easily.”
Spencer rubbed his eyes, “So we’ve got nothing else?”
“The first one wasn’t a retaliation hit, it was professional. The second one could be same guy but more emotional if you want to believe it. May be it’s the same shooter and he’s progressing in his kills. The first was drug dealers, the second ordinary people. Easier targets with Walsh and Gerald static, they’re in that car.”
“Can we expect more shootings?”
“My honest opinion is yes, things could get a lot worse.”
Chapter Thirty Six
I was still going over the case files with Spencer when my phone rang. The number was yet another that I didn’t recognise and as much as I dislike talking on the phone to strangers I thought it best to answer, “Hello?”
“Is that Detective Harper?”
“Yeah and who is this?”
“It’s Matthew Thompson from the community centre, you said to give you a call if I found out anything.”
His words made me sit up, “So what have you got?”
“I think you should get down here.”
There was an urgency in his voice that compelled me to believe him, “On my way,” I stood up and put on my jacket, “Spencer, this isn’t the favour you owe me. That is a big chit to hold on you, but I need a lift.”
“Why? You have your own car.”
“Because, Detective Inspector, I want to have a drink later and I really can’t be arsed driving. If you ferry me there you might find something useful in your investigation.”
Spencer glared at me and then shrugged his resignation, “Fine, let’s go.”
I smiled in victory, drained the rest of my tea and splashed some after aftershave on my face and followed him out the door. The drive to the community centre was excruciating in its silence since I didn’t have anything to really add to the case a
nd Spencer really is a dull human being. When we arrived I was glad to get out of the car and positively skipped through the door and away from my chauffeur.
Matthew Thompson looked nearly as tired as Spencer when he beckoned me over as a group of youths played table tennis and another set moved portable cots to a storage space. The man, wearing the same clothes as the day before, quickly ushered Spencer and myself into a side room which appeared to be his office and used to be the vestry.
It was a small room off the hall with walls lined with posters and dry wipeboards that had rotas and timetables scrawled on them. The furniture was minimal other than a battered filing cabinet with two drawers open and two grey plastic chairs with black metal legs facing a large old wooden desk that didn’t fit with the decrepit surroundings. The writing desk must have been part of furniture from the original building as I saw no way it would get out of the doorway now. Part of me, the more cynical side, recognised it as an excellent barricade against any youth who tried to get through the door, the more appreciative side saw it as a piece of beautiful craftsmanship that would be underappreciated in such a place.
I introduced the other detective as Thompson went around the desk and sat at the other chair, a more comfortable looking piece with actual padding. I took it as a sign to start the conversation, “So what have you got for us?”
Thompson bit his lip for a moment and then ducked behind the desk, his body disappearing from view as he went into one of the drawers, “We run a safe drop here for guns in case someone wants to give up their weapons anonymously. It’s an old heavy duty safe set into the stone structure originally used for donations. The staff check it every hour or so and if there is anything in there we inform the authorities and it’s removed. Well, that’s what we used to do till the kids thought it funny to put dog crap in there.”
A Shot In The Night (John Harper Series Book 2) Page 14