The man he was meeting, a Ryan Cranston, would be spending the rest of his life behind bars. The charges filed against him could fill a phone book twice over and on the inside he had not been any less violent. The other member of his ram raiding squad who had survived long enough to serve at Her Majesty’s Pleasure, Brian McNeil, had unfortunately been the target of one of the other Liverpool gangs that had a presence in prison. He was beaten to death in the yard which led to Cranston enacting his revenge. Three inmates shivved with knife made out of a piece of plastic had led to two more deaths and a man who, due to his stomach wounds, would need a colostomy bag for the rest of his much shortened life.
After the attacks, Cranston apparently suffered a mental breakdown. His condition was diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenia, an attempted suicide and then a period of time in a catatonic state had led to the decision to place him in a secure mental institution, Ashworth Hospital. It was a much easier and safer lifestyle for Cranston than being placed back in prison but he was still surrounded by some of the most dangerous and violent people requiring psychiatric help in the country.
Spencer didn’t expect the man to give him much in the way of information; the gang way of life encouraged silence, but it was a lead and in this particular investigation that was the most important thing. Anything that could help him make an arrest and end the carnage that had befallen his city. He knew that making Cranston talk would require some quick thinking but the wait and the drive over plus a phone conversation to the officer who had arrested him gave Spencer an idea as how to approach the former armed robber.
The door was opened and in walked a muscular man in his forties wearing an orange t-shirt, jeans and grey deck shoes; one of the perks of being in a mental institution. He was escorted to a chair in front of the detective and sat staring vacantly around the room. The prison guard cum nurse shut the door behind him, leaving the two men together. Spencer stared at the man for a moment assessing him as best as he could. Cranston’s face was hidden by his beard and long hair and he twitched ever so slightly. There were bags under his blue eyes but they seemed oddly alert.
“Good morning Mister Cranston, I’m Detective Inspector Spencer and I’d like to ask you some questions if that is ok with you?”
Cranston looked back at him and fixed him with a stare that was completely lucid, “Ask away, detective.”
“Ok Ryan, is it ok if I call you Ryan?” the man nodded so Spencer continued, “Good, well Ryan, I want to discuss with you a gun that was in your possession. I have a picture of it, a Webley and Smith Mark IV, do you remember it at all?”
Cranston didn’t even bother looking down at the photographs that Spencer had placed on the table in front of him, “I don’t remember anything from my time before the voices. It’s all just bits and pieces, I don’t know what is real or what I’ve made up.”
Spencer smiled briefly at the man and carried on in a softly spoken voice that was more used to speaking to children than adults, mimicking the way Cranston had answered him but without the singsong lilt to it, “I understand it must be very difficult for you, Ryan, how are the voices? I mean you’ve been living with them for a few years now, are things getting any better?”
Cranston’s eyes narrowed briefly and then he looked away and offered another twitch, “They come and go, they’re much better than before.”
“Well that’s good to hear. I mean, I spoke to a Detective Dillon, do you remember him, Ryan? He was the man who investigated your robberies. Well, he thinks that those voices in your head don’t even exist. He wasn’t worried about you at all, he said that he thought you were one of the cleverest men he had ever met and if anyone could pull the wool over the police and mental services collective eyes then it was you,” Spencer picked up one of the photos and held it before Cranston, “Ryan, are you sure you haven’t seen this gun before?”
“I can’t help you sir. The voices, they just won’t let me,” the last statement was said with an edge that had Spencer balling his fingers beneath the table.
“I see, well if they are that bad then maybe they need to up your medication. All these years in here and you are still hearing them, maybe you need to go off…let me see,” Spencer looked at a file he had next to the photos, “Yes, go off Olanzapine and put you on, say, Clozapine. I hear it is a lot more controlled and can help stop those voices that you are struggling with.”
Cranston’s eyes widened briefly and then he twitched again a little more forcefully, “No, my medication is working. It just takes time, that’s what the doctors all say.”
“That’s right, I know a fair few doctors, I even know Doctor Cross. I’d be more than happy to get in touch with him to arrange for a course of Clozapine at your next treatment review; if there are any adverse side effects, you know, like if you get angry again, then there are always some sedatives like Clonazepam. Who knows, by the time of your next full evaluation they might clear you sane enough to go back to a real prison. There’s a good lawyer, a Mister Edwards, and we go way back so I am sure that he would be more than willing to try and fight for your human rights by getting you out of here. I mean, that might be the only way you can remember anything about this gun, to increase your medication,” Spencer said shrugging and leaning back in his chair.
Cranston fixed him with look, turned ever so slightly so he was facing Spencer squarely and laid his hands on the table, “What do you want to know?”
Spencer smiled, pleased that Dillon’s estimation of the man was accurate and that the veiled threats had hit home. Cranston was a clever man and, knowing that he was going to face a life inside, had chosen the easy option of feigning insanity. Spencer knew that it must have been hard work for the man to maintain it and avoid taking the medication they prescribed but it was safer than going back to a real prison where he would have to look over his shoulder for the rest of his life.
He could have been telling the truth about a psychological breakdown but the way he reacted to Spencer’s suggestions and the fact that his lawyer had a reputation for coaching his clients for insanity claims had confirmed any suspicions the detective had about the man. The drugs he had mentioned that Cranston could be placed on were heavy duty; the sedative would completely immobilise him. Clozapine is one of the last resorts when it comes to anti-psychotic drugs, due to the cost and the danger. One of the more serious of main side effects was the effect it had on white cells in the blood, which meant that regular blood tests were needed for the patients’ safety, which also ensured that the drug was being taken. Cranston would have no choice but to take it and the other side effects coupled with not actually hearing voices would wreck havoc on his body. He would no doubt have seen patients on it and be scared senseless at the thought of being placed on such a drug. He could have called Spencer’s bluff but what was the sense in risking his quiet life on the chance that the policeman was lying?
“Ryan, I just want to know who you sold this weapon to. If you can give me any more information on the weapon, all the better. I mean, anything you say has to be taken with a pinch of salt anyway considering your situation, doesn’t it?” Spencer hoped that Cranston understood that he was giving him an excuse to tell the truth and hopefully, if it did get out, there would be no retribution coming his way.
“I saw a lot of guns in my day, copper, ranging from AKs to rocket launchers. You show me a picture of one old revolver, I ain’t gonna remember anything about it,” Cranston said, his voice harsher, more guttural than the gentle way he had spoken earlier, as if Spencer was finally hearing and seeing the real man for the first time.
Spencer nodded and pointed at the picture, “It was used by one of your gang in a post office raid. One of the tellers got shot back at the start of the millennium.”
“See that barely narrows it down, we did a lot of jobs and some people got in the way.”
“Are you sure about that? It was out of the city, down south. What gets me is that there are still serial numbers on it, maybe that helps you.
”
“Oh that does help. That gun was an old war piece, always just a something that should be used and then thrown away, except Dougie, he loved that thing. Cleaning it and keeping it pristine, said he stole it off some old man when he was a kid. When he popped I didn’t see the point in keeping it around so I sold it. Those numbers don’t mean anything to me, I never used the thing and what you gonna do, find out it was an Army weapon? Sometimes you busies say the stupidest things,” Cranston laughed leaning back in his chair hands running through his long hair to rest interlaced behind his head.
Spencer nodded, remembering that Douglas Makin had been one of the crew Cranston had worked with and the first of two to die in the bitter gang wars, “So who did you sell the gun to?”
“Some kid. He came round and was new to the gang so I sold him it for some ridiculous price. I mean just because someone sent him around to get a piece doesn’t mean I didn’t have to make a profit.”
Spencer nodded glumly thinking that selling the weapon for anything was a profit, something that had done neither Cranston nor the people now on morgue slabs any good, “Do you remember the lad’s name? Or if not what he looked like?”
“Yeah I remember his name. The kid was called Boulton, you know, like the crappy football team.”
That joke, albeit not the greatest in the world, made Spencer laugh, a grim chuckle that drew a weird look from Cranston. The detective was back at square one and there was nothing he could think of to help get him moving forward again other than to ask Harper for help and he was loath to do so.
Chapter Forty Six
Camille Jarvis sat at her desk and sipped coffee from her oversized mug. She was staring at her laptop screen and silently praying that the words she needed would suddenly appear on the screen. After her little stint on television, getting back to actually writing for her website and the newspaper had been difficult. She’d been told that doing a video log and putting that online would be easier and, considering her looks, it might increase foot traffic on the site. Camille however was old school, preferring to write her copy down instead of delivering it to a camera. Not that she as adverse to that medium, she hoped that she could get a job on the news as a reporter in the near future, but she had always loved writing no matter what else she was doing.
Today however, it was difficult, a real struggle for her to focus considering she had the threat of Big Saul hanging over her. Harper had done his best to ease that worry but she couldn’t trust the former policeman. Normally she could get any man to do what she wanted, she was very good at using her assets to wrap men around her finger but Harper was different. Maybe it was his age and there was obviously the issue over the Hollingswood case but he seemed to be immune, or at least resistant, to her charms. That made him all the more interesting and, added to the fact that he seemed keen to use her for help regarding the shootings, made him her favourite person of the moment. Still she rarely trusted anyone, that came as part of the job, and putting her trust in a man who had threatened to destroy her in the past did not come easy, especially when it was in the form of putting a leash on one of the most dangerous drug dealers in the country.
Luckily she was exempt from doing her usual reporting job of following around soap stars. She was resented by some of the staff for having what was a very enjoyable job, but Camille hated the vapid lifestyle of the non-celebrities and had long ago decided that all that was needed for that section of the paper was a series of photos from freelance photographers whilst she wrote up where people had been from Twitter announcements. It would require less effort on her behalf, however the editor had deemed that someone actually needed to go to those parties and clubs for the inside gossip. The problem that presented was simple; once she was in she couldn’t reveal any of the true gossip because she wouldn’t get invited back. That’s why those pieces were usually short and promoting a new show or product for the celebrity. Camille wasn’t surprised other papers had got rid of staff members who also did her job, what was surprising was that some people had managed to cling to a living following people to parties. What that said about those individuals was probably left to a team of psychiatrists to analyse.
Camille’s fingers hovered over the keyboard when her e-mail chimed, a welcome distraction, she opened the folder and stared at the sender, a Paul Avery. She recognised the name but couldn’t place it. It had a large attachment but the anti-virus software deemed it safe to open. Camille sat back and clicked on it, happy she had something to procrastinate over. The video player sprang to life but there was no picture, only audio. A distorted voice spoke out from her speakers.
“Hello Miss Jarvis, I thought since you seem to be the expert on my case, you would be the best person to contact. However there will be other copies of my message being sent out if you decide not to heed my warning. I am the person you are searching for. The Seasonal Sniper as you have dubbed me. It was never my intention to speak to the press but things have escalated to the point where my point of view must be heard. If you doubt that this is word of the man who has terrorised those involved in the drug distribution in Liverpool then I offer you the information that I delivered the Webley revolver to the Elsworth community centre. Since there has been no press release as to the nature of the weapon or the location of where the police received it I believe that should be good enough for you to verify my claim.”
“For years I have seen the scum of drug dealers destroy the lives of people of this city. I could never understand why it was so difficult for the police to arrest these known criminals, but it has recently come to my attention that there is collusion between the service that is supposed to protect the innocent and these evil people who profit from selling narcotics. It was something I have always suspected but I have now seen it with my own eyes in unerring detail.”
“I have been punishing those people who peddle drugs but now I will turn my attention to those who have protected them. This is the only warning they will get. My aim is for the people to see that there is corruption throughout the system and that the only way to excise this cancer is by removing it with surgical precision.”
“I will punish indiscriminately and will continue to do so till the police see the error of their ways and stop these men who destroy lives with no remorse. Only then will I leave this city to heal.”
The message stopped and Camille let out a ragged breath, suddenly realising she had been holding it for the duration of the recording. She made the connection as to who Paul Avery was, the journalist the Zodiac Killer had approached. Whoever this person was, they were clever and had a twisted way of getting her attention. Camille tried not to think about the threats that Avery had received from that famous murderer and instead her mind raced as to what would be the best way to break this story. This would be a defining moment for her career, much more than being on television or her other reports. The website would be the best as a personal outlet, the national news channels for promoting herself on a broader market. Her paper would essentially be useless in this modern era and of course she could always use social media. However she knew that she had to protect people as well if this shooter was going to start targeting the police and there was one person she knew who would need that information before anyone else.
Chapter Forty Seven
Yes, I had been overly reckless in the gym but I wanted this case over as soon as possible and I had a clear suspect. Now I was in the office with Max and Tony, the former sitting in his chair and the latter hovering protectively over his partner’s right shoulder. I stood by the couch as Saul sat in the other chair facing the two boxers. Outside his men waited impatiently but not as agitated as their boss who was repeatedly balling his hands into fists and then letting go, “We’ve got some privacy now Harper so you better explain yourself.”
I looked at Saul and then at the two men, “Ok well like I said, these two men knew that you were in the country and the location of your home.”
“And what’s your point, Harper, I’
ve known these two since I was a kid. They raised me, took me in when no one else cared. I owe them everything,” the drug lord said with passion in his voice.
“You owe them but that doesn’t stop you from charging them rent on this place.”
Saul tilted his head slightly, “I run a business, not a charity. I’ve been more than generous with their rent. I am very understanding, much more so than any other landlord.”
“But don’t you think that there would be some resentment.”
“There’s no resentment, Harper,” Max said forcefully, “Saul has been good to us. When we started to have trouble making the rent on this building he bought it for us. We’ve never had the money to buy it ourselves so he took it on. He gave us a home.”
I looked at the old boxer who sat with his arms crossed in a ragged grey jumper. He was angry but Tony, who stood behind him, wasn’t. He was more relaxed than I expected, “What about you, Tony? You saw the young man you nurtured making it big. He’s got all the cash in the world and you and Max here are living hand to mouth.”
“I get by. I’m happy for Saul but you know I would rather him do something else. The man’s talented enough. He’s got more brains then us two.”
I smiled, “Don’t put yourself down there, Tony, you’re a smart guy. I mean you managed to hinder Saul’s drug trade with the shootings.”
The cutman’s jaw clenched and Saul shot up from his chair which made me take a backward step away from the man, “What the hell are you saying, Harper?”
“I’m saying that Tony here has an issue with you selling drugs and since you are carrying on with that profession he decided to put his army training to good use. You still have an old Lee Enfield rifle don’t you, Tony? What about the pistol you took off Saul when he was a kid? Shooting his drug dealers with his gun carries a certain amount of irony,” I said all that whilst trying to switch off my phone which had decided to start ringing in my pocket.
A Shot In The Night (John Harper Series Book 2) Page 20