Mortal Men (The Lakeland Murders Book 7)

by J. J. Salkeld

  ‘All right, I get you. Tell you what, I’ll leave one of them here, and I’ll take the other one out to Troutbeck. See what we can come up with.’

  ‘Which one do you want to take?’

  ‘Does either of them have any actual superpowers?’

  ‘If they do it doesn’t say anything in their files, and you’d think it would, even with our personnel pillocks.’

  ‘All right. I’ll give them both a little test and take the one who does best.’

  ‘Does the test involve tea making, by any chance?’

  ‘You asking?’

  ‘You offering?’

  ‘Aye. I’ll get one sent in, and then I’ll get off. What time’s the team meeting?’

  ‘Three o’clock, before the shift change.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Good. And, Ian, you’ll say I’m as pessimistic as my better half, but let’s assume the worst, that Sandy and her happy band of elves aren’t able to connect either one of the two Johns to the shooting forensically. If that’s the case then we’ll definitely need to break one of their alibis or we’re….

  ‘Buggered?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  DC Ben Mason had done well in the tea test, but Mann wasn’t at all sure if he’d made the right decision in selecting him. For a start he wasn’t local, and seemed to have trouble in finding his way from Kendal to Windermere.

  ‘Haven’t you been for days out in the Lakes, walking, doing anything like that?’ asked Mann, as they drove.

  ‘Not really. I did enough walking when I was a PC.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘Maidstone.’

  ‘That’s down south, I take it.’

  ‘That’s right. Do you know it?’

  ‘No. Can’t say I’ve ever been. So what brought you up here?’

  ‘I got selected to be part of the diving team.’

  For the first time since they’d set off Mann smiled.

  ‘Why didn’t you say? Before I got my stripes I was on the team. Is old George still looking after the kit?’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘So you must have been on that drowning, up at Ullswater last month.’

  ‘I was, yes. It was my buddy who found her. I helped bring her out. I had to take a day or two off after. They sent me to see a counsellor, but that did bugger all good.’

  Mann nodded. ‘No surprise there, then. Never seen a dead body before?’

  ‘No. Had you? When you first joined the dive team, I mean.’

  ‘Aye, lad, I had.’

  ‘You joined the job from the Marines? The Navy? Mine clearance, was it?’

  ‘Something like that, aye. It’s still tough though, isn’t it? Accidental deaths, sudden ones, they’re the worst.’

  ‘Who for?’

  Mann turned to the young man, trying hard to ignore the stubble beard that he was certain had no place on any Police officer, and nodded.

  ‘Aye, son, I know what you mean. Still, make the most of it, eh?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All this.’ Mann gestured out of the windows.

  ‘What? Fields full of sheep? They warned me about you boys, before I came up here.’

  Mann laughed.

  ‘Take a sharp left at the bottom of the hill. The supermarket that Winder says he went to will be straight ahead of you.’

  Mason parked the car and the two officers walked into the store. Five minutes later they were collected by a tall, thin man carrying a clipboard. Mann noticed a couple of the staff glancing at him.

  ‘I’m Jed Nicholson.’

  ‘Head of Security?’ asked Mann.

  Nicholson hesitated. ‘You could say that, yes.’

  ‘So you can show us the tapes that we asked to review? The ones we called about earlier.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I certainly can. I’ve got the files ready for you. From one in the afternoon onwards. I thought we’d start with the camera that covers the entrance, and then focus in from there, if you’ll excuse the pun.’

  ‘Good. You should have been a detective.’

  Nicholson smiled a long, thin smile.

  ‘Aye, I should. I’ve always had an interest, like.’

  ‘We’re recruiting again at the minute, if you’re interested.’

  ‘I know. Anyway, walk this way, as they say.’

  Nicholson’s office was tiny and untidy, with dirty windows looking onto the warehouse, but neither officer commented. They all squeezed in, although closing the door required some fancy footwork.

  ‘Have you confirmed that the time code is accurate?’ asked Mason, when the two officers had managed to settle on the two mis-matched chairs.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Have you confined that the timecode that’s being recorded on the video is spot-on?’

  ‘It will be.’

  ‘Would you do me a favour and show me the live feed?’

  ‘Why? Your man won’t be on it.’

  ‘I know that. I want to check that the time is spot on.’

  ‘Right, I get you. Currently it’s saying 10.19.’

  ‘Keep that screen up, would you? I’ll phone the speaking clock.’

  Nicholson turned to Mann.

  ‘Didn’t I read somewhere that Police forces spent a fortune calling the speaking clock? Quite a scandal, it was.’

  ‘Well now you know why we do it, don’t you?’

  Mason established that the clock on the screen was twenty seconds slow, a fact he noted and confirmed with Mann, who entered the details in his own notebook.

  ‘Right’ said Mann, ‘let the show commence. You don’t need to stay Mr. Nicholson. I’m sure you’ve got lots to be getting on with. It’s literally like watching paint dry, is this job. If you just show DC Mason how to work the thing we’ll be fine.’

  ‘Of course. It’s dead simple. And I’d better stay. Policy, you know.’

  ‘That’s fine. Who knows, you might be doing this in a while too. If you join the job, I mean.’

  It didn’t take long to spot Winder entering the store, at a corrected time of exactly 1.18pm. Nicholson peered over Mason’s shoulder.

  ‘So that’s your man, is it? You’d never guess, would you? He looks so… prosperous I suppose you’d say.’

  Mann turned quickly in his chair.

  ‘He’s just someone that we’re interested in, that’s all. You do understand that this is confidential, don’t you, Mr. Nicholson? We wouldn’t want to see a still of this turning up on your Facebook page, or whatever.’

  ‘Of course not. I understand. So would you like the other cameras for that time period?’

  ‘Yes, please. If you could show us, and then we’ll need to download the footage onto a memory stick.’

  The officers had almost finished, having found several really clear shots of Winder, when Nicholson’s walkie-talkie crackled. He went outside, into the open warehouse, and then walked away. The two officers turned, and watched him go.

  ‘He’s tall enough for the job, anyway’ said Mann, grinning at Mason.

  ‘Yes, I’ll give him that much.’

  ‘The clothes match though, don’t they?’ said Mann, pointing back at the screen.

  ‘They do. I’d say they match exactly with the gear that was uplifted from Winder’s place. The stuff that he said he was wearing during the day. This proves it, I suppose.’

  ‘Anything strike you as odd about the way he moved around the store?’

  Mason shook his head.

  ‘No, not really. He was pretty quick choosing stuff, and he wasn’t in there long. But I expect he knows his way round, and maybe he doesn’t need to worry about comparing prices.’

  ‘He does not. I saw the top-line stuff on matey boy’s finances before we left the office.’

  ‘Well off, is he?’

  ‘John Winder keeps more cash kicking about in his current account then I earn in a year, and that’s a bloody fact. Come on, get that stuff on your memor
y pen and let’s make a move. I’m sure old Sherlock will want to give us the benefit of his advice before we go.’

  ‘At least he sees the job as a career opportunity.’

  ‘Why? Don’t you, Ben?’

  ‘Of course I do. I’ve worked hard enough to get in to CID.’

  ‘On the mean streets of Maidstone, was it?’

  ‘It has its moments.’

  ‘Doesn’t everywhere? Cheap booze, a sense of entitlement and no respect for us. It’s a universal bloody recipe for trouble, is that.’

  ‘Exactly. Anyway, just give me a couple of minutes while I get this stuff saved and checked.’

  Mann got up, and looked out at the warehouse. Then he laughed. ‘He’ll not catch many cons with that.’

  Mason glanced round and smiled as they watched Nicholson drive past on a fork-lift.

  ‘I think Head of Security may have been a bit of an exaggeration.’

  ‘No shit, Sherlock’, said Mann.

  On the way up to Kirkstone Mann called Jane and gave her the news, between giving hand-signals to keep Mason pointing in the right direction. He rang off, and turned towards Mason.

  ‘We’ll be at this workmate of Tyson’s in a bit. How’s your head for heights?’

  ‘All right, why?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  And quite soon Mason did see.

  ‘They call this hill ‘The Struggle’ said Mann, ‘and I bet even our friend on the fork-lift could work out why.’

  ‘Bloody hell, it is steep.’

  ‘One of our DCs comes up here on his bike. Just for fun, like.’

  ‘He must be mad.’

  ‘It’s good for you, is a challenge.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. So what’s the story with this next lad? Known to us, is he?’

  ‘I should say so. Name of Sam Scott. We nick him every few months for scrapping, the usual pissed-up nonsense, and I nicked him once for receiving. A chainsaw it was. He swore blind he’d bought it off this bloke in a pub. The usual bollocks. I only remember because he made a bullshit complaint against the young PC who actually pinched him. It took us weeks to sort it all out, and all he got was a poxy fine at the end of it.’

  ‘A model citizen then?’

  ‘Not exactly. But there but for the grace of God go I, to tell the truth. He seems bright enough actually, which is why he was able to tie us in bloody knots for weeks, and I suspect he’s just bored. Agricultural labouring is hard work, but it’s not always what you’d call stimulating. But I doubt he’d lie to us about this, wouldn’t young Sam Scott. He’ll know we’re not pissing about. Not about murder, like. By the way, did you put some boots in the car?’

  ‘No, did you?’

  ‘Of course I did, lad. We’ve got to walk from a lane end up to where the lad’s working.’

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  ‘Very likely. Mud too, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Sam Scott watched DS Mann and DC Mason coming up the field towards him. Mann strode out, while Mason seemed to be trying to keep the bottoms of his trousers out of the mud. Scott turned, shook his head, and went back to moving stone for Tyson to choose from.

  ‘All right, Sam,’ said Mann, as he approached. ‘Can we have a word?’ Mann nodded to John Tyson, who carried on with his work. Mann turned, and smiled as he watched Mason labouring up the hill towards them.

  ‘Will he make it, your lad?’ asked Scott, as he strolled over.

  ‘It’s touch and go, like’ said Mann, adding by way of explanation, ‘he’s from Maidstone.’

  ‘Is he now? What can I do for you, Sergeant Mann? Come to fit me up again, have you?’

  Mason had almost reached them now, and Mann didn’t reply until he had.

  ‘This is serious, Sam. We’re not talking about some stolen chainsaw now.’

  ‘Bought in good faith, like I told you.

  ‘Aye, you did. Shame the judge didn’t believe you any more than I did. But you know very well why we’re here.’

  ‘Scott nodded. ‘Aye. Frankie Foster getting shot like that. You want to know where John was, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Aye, we do.’

  ‘Well like I told that copper who phoned me, I saw him in the morning, before brew time, and again at knocking off. So that’s nine and half four, give or take a minute or two. But he could have been to the bloody moon through the day for all I know, like. I was moving some stock down towards Ambleside. You can ask the gaffer, if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘That’s all right, Sam. You’re an observant sort of bloke though, aren’ you? You don’t miss much, I mean.’

  ‘Aye, maybe’ said Scott, cautiously.

  ‘So let me ask you a couple of things. Was John Tyson’s pick-up parked in the same place at the end of the day? Had it moved, do you think?’

  Scott thought about it.

  ‘I don’t think so, no. But I couldn’t swear to it either way, like.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘That I’m not sure? Aye. It was in roughly the same place, that I can say. But exactly the same? I just don’t know. We don’t have bloody parking bays out here, Sergeant Mann.’

  ‘OK smart-arse, so how about the walling? Did he do the amount you expected in the day? When you turned up yesterday evening, did you notice anything unusual?’

  ‘No, nowt. But I’m the wrong person to ask, like. I know some lads treat walling like some kind of bloody holy ritual, but as far as I’m concerned a dry-stone wall is only there to keep the fields clear and the stock in. I barely look at the bloody things.’

  ‘The last of the great craftsmen, eh? And what about the clothes that John was wearing yesterday?’

  ‘How should I know? I’m not bloody gay. I don’t notice owt like that.’

  ‘Were they like the gear he’s got on now?’

  Scott glanced round. ‘Aye. Pretty much. We don’t come up here in white tie and bloody tails.’

  Mann glanced across at Mason. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘The stuff we recovered is much the same.’

  Mann nodded, and turned back to Scott. ‘All right, thanks. And what’s the word in the village, about Frankie’s death, I mean?’

  ‘People have their theories.’

  ‘Would you care to elaborate?’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Of course not. You’d just be helping us with our enquiries.’

  ‘Some people say it was a hit-man. They’re saying it was a precision job, like. One bullet right through the temple, they say.’

  ‘Well tell them from me that they’re wrong, Sam. It was about as precise as a bloody avalanche. But you knew Frankie, I take it?’

  ‘To say hello to, aye. Everybody did. But he was an old ‘un, like.’

  ‘And you all know what he’d done?’

  ‘That he was a grass? Aye, of course we knew. Everyone did.’

  ‘What did people think of that? Do they think he had it coming to him?’

  Scott shrugged. ‘Some did, I expect.’

  ‘What about you, Sam? What do you think?’

  Scott looked straight back at Mann, meeting his copper’s stare.

  ‘In his position I’d have done the same. Grassed, I mean. I think most people would.’

  Mann nodded, and smiled.

  ‘In my experience you’re right, Sam. You’re absolutely right. I’ve seen some right hard men crumble when they begin to understand how long they’d be away for, and how keen they are to grass up their mates then. Anyway, we’ll leave you to get back to work.’

  ‘All right. And by the way, you do know that there’s an easier way up here from the lane, don’t you?’

  ‘Aye, I did. But we do like a challenge, don’t we, DC Mason?’

  Just relax. I always knew that it would be like this. They were never going to just give up and forget about it. So it will be like this for weeks, months maybe. So don’t worry about a knock at the door, they like to come early, remember, and don’t look over your shoulder. Th
ey won’t shake my alibi: how could they? It might be a surveillance society, and that might not even be all badI suppose, but there’s no CCTV around here. Not for bloody miles. You’d have to go down to Windermere or Ambleside, or up to Penrith. Not unless they’ve got those bloody drones circling now, watching us all. And it hasn’t come to that, has it? Not yet, anyway. And maybe that’s why they all come here, the tourists. A last taste of freedom, like. I nearly ran over a couple when I was leaving the house the other day. They just walk straight down the middle of the road in the village, like it’s a footpath. I can’t work out what they’re looking at, or what they’re looking for.

  They’ll not break my alibi, anyway. All I was doing was what I always do. No bloody complicated schemes like you see on the TV. And anyway, I haven’t even got a twin brother. Just do what you always do, that’s the secret. It’s the changes that they spot, the coppers. An established pattern of behaviour. That’s what they call it, and that’s what you want to show them. Mobile phone not just off, but at home. And not just this time. I’ve done that once or twice a week for months. What would I need a phone for? Nothing to see here, coppers.

  They’ll do their forensics, of course they will. But I’ve not underestimated them, not for one second. All that research will have paid off for me, big style. It’s a bloody murderer’s encyclopaedia, is that internet. Not that I did any of my research from home. I can’t believe the way all those middle-class murderers who get sick of their wives are found out because they searched on how to dispose of bodies, or make a cross-bow out of sticks or something. Bloody idiots, they deserve to get caught. Just work a bit harder than the coppers, and that’s not difficult to do, and you’ve got nowt to worry about.

  And I did the lot. Every bit of online advice I found, I followed. To the bloody letter. Wore thick gloves, two pairs, taped them closed against my sleeve. I know they can find a single molecule of blood or residue on your skin, but nothing could have got through. Not one bloody atom. They can swab all they like.