by Steven Dunne
‘Sergeant Tinkerman has been stood down from duty,’ said Charlton. ‘He has no access to the ARU armoury until the board hears his evidence on the Fry shooting. The Exhibits Officer has taken possession of all guns from yesterday’s—’
‘He didn’t use an official weapon, sir,’ said Brook.
‘Impossible,’ agreed Morton. ‘Every carbine, every Taser and every handgun has a strictly enforced paper trail. Weapons are signed out and back in again every day, whether it’s for practice or armed duty. He must have picked up a couple of decomms.’
‘A couple of what?’
‘Decommissioned weapons,’ said Noble. ‘When a force has surplus or obsolete firearms, they’re either destroyed, transferred to another division or sold. There’s a lot of scope for weapons to go missing.’
‘It’s a problem in Nottingham,’ agreed Morton. ‘Even worse in the PSNI.’
‘This isn’t Northern Ireland, Sergeant,’ chided Charlton.
‘Rob’s right,’ said Brook. ‘If—’
‘Enough,’ barked Charlton, looking at his watch again. ‘I don’t want to discuss this any further. Brook, I suggest you expedite the ballistics exam of Fry’s weapon and the bullets recovered from Ticknall. Once they provide a link to the other murders, we can all get on with our lives and pretend this conversation never happened.’
‘And if they don’t?’
‘Then you have one card to play,’ said Charlton. ‘If Tinkerman was at Frazer and Nolan’s party, you have every right to bring him in and ask him the question.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Brook, glancing at Noble.
‘I know that look, Brook. Do not take that as an invitation to start accusing a respected police officer. Tread very, very carefully, and I do not want to hear any whispers about your suspicions outside this room until the ballistics comparison is in.’ Charlton glared at the assembled detectives to make his meaning clear. ‘From anyone.’
Thirty
Wednesday 9 November
‘Make sure he has his rep with him,’ said Charlton.
‘We’ll suggest it,’ smiled Brook. ‘But he’ll be expecting another go around the houses about the Fry shooting, and bringing his rep into it will put him on his guard.’
‘I want him on his guard,’ said Charlton.
‘Then we’ll suggest it strongly.’
‘Fine. But you’re not to ask him about the Fry shooting directly, do you hear?’ Brook nodded. ‘I assume Tinkerman has no idea you’re interviewing him.’
‘That’s the plan, sir.’
‘Then be clear about offering the rep,’ insisted Charlton. ‘He might claim later that you blindsided him.’
‘I will be blindsiding him,’ remarked Brook.
‘No you won’t, you’ll ask him about the party and his acquaintance with Frazer and Nolan and that’s it.’
‘And one or two matters arising,’ put in Noble.
‘Such as?’ demanded Charlton.
‘If we mention Frazer and Nolan, surely we can introduce the profile of their killer,’ said Noble.
‘Strictly in the abstract sense,’ added Brook. ‘Sir.’
Brook’s reassuring smile had the opposite effect, and Charlton eyed them both doubtfully. ‘Maybe I should sit in.’
‘Is that wise?’ Brook stared evenly at the Chief Super, willing him to recall his disastrous contribution to a suspect’s interrogation the year before, and his subsequent embarrassment, so he wouldn’t have to bring it up himself.
‘Perhaps I’ll just watch on the monitor.’
Brook smiled broadly. ‘Your call, sir.’
Tinkerman looked up in surprise when Brook and Noble entered, the latter carrying hot drinks. ‘Inspector?’ he said with a grin. ‘You’re taking over as Post Incident Manager?’
Brook’s smile was tight and professional, as were the introductions for the tape.
‘Your rep’s not here,’ observed Brook. ‘Do you want us to postpone?’
‘I’ve done all my debriefs,’ said Tinkerman, his affability fading. ‘I assumed this was just a handshake and a carry-on-with-the-good-work back slap. You were there, Brook. Fry had a gun. It was a righteous shoot.’ He shrugged. ‘If it’s about Caskey and her little stunt, she didn’t learn that routine from me.’
‘This isn’t about Caskey.’
‘Then what? Some media bullshit?’ said Tinkerman, his mood souring. ‘If so, they didn’t get it from me. I don’t talk to hacks.’
Brook glanced at Noble, who placed a selection of photographs on the table – a pair of crime-scene photos of Frazer and Nolan, their corpses side by side in their Breadsall home, next to post-mortem photographs of the dead men.
Tinkerman stared without expression, his dark eyes darting from picture to picture as Brook and Noble watched for a tell. When faced with an image of a life taken, a killer would often push the photographs dismissively away in a subconscious admission of guilt and revulsion. Or look quickly then turn his face away.
Tinkerman did neither, instead engaging Brook with a nonchalant shrug. ‘You want a comment on marksmanship, I’ll need a range.’
‘No more than ten feet,’ said Noble.
Tinkerman weighed it up. ‘Indoor shot? Not difficult, especially if the vics are stationary. One in the heart, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Quick at least.’
‘Do you recognise the victims?’ ventured Brook.
Tinkerman paused. ‘Sure. Fry’s first kill. The gay couple in Breadsall about six weeks ago.’
‘Do you remember their names?’
Tinkerman shook his head slowly. ‘Can’t say I do.’
‘What about this man?’ said Brook, laying down two more photographs.
Tinkerman pulled the picture closer – Sean Trimble, lying on his back on the gravel path. ‘Is this the Ticknall scene? It’s a more skilful shot.’
‘How so?’ said Noble.
‘It’s a night shot, moving target. Heart and head. Classic. But the heart’s the stopper. The head shot is backup, usually from close range when the target is down. Go for the heart. You miss, you do major damage. Miss the head shot and your target could still be live. And the skull’s pretty tough if you hit at the wrong angle. The bullet can easily glance off.’
‘Impressive,’ mumbled Noble.
‘Basics,’ grinned Tinkerman. ‘Any AFO will tell you the same.’
‘So you went for Fry’s heart?’ said Brook.
Tinkerman stiffened. ‘You know damn well I did.’
‘A fine shot.’ No reply from Tinkerman. ‘Do you ever miss, Sergeant?’
‘Never,’ said Tinkerman. ‘I’m in the range three times a week.’
‘What about this victim?’ said Noble, tapping the photograph.
‘His name is Sean Trimble,’ said Brook.
‘Okay,’ said Tinkerman, a wary note creeping into his voice. ‘Soldier boy knew his stuff.’ He shrugged. ‘Infantry, right. Look, I’m sorry Fry’s dead. He fought for his country, but it was him or me. Or one of my team. I’ve done my psych evaluation and I’m fine with it. Can I go now?’
‘The first victims, Frazer and Nolan, died together,’ said Brook. ‘But Sean died alone.’
‘Most of us will,’ said Tinkerman. ‘We just have to get on with it, don’t we?’
Brook smiled. ‘Yes, we do.’
‘The thing is, ballistics failed to match Fry’s gun to any of the recent shootings,’ said Noble. ‘Not the one at Ticknall, or Frazer and Nolan in Breadsall, or Mr and Mrs Gibson in Boulton Moor.’
Tinkerman stroked his thick beard and nodded. ‘You think he had a second weapon and dumped it after the shoot. Makes sense. A pro would have a backup.’
‘That’s what we figured,’ said Noble, who placed the photograph of the mystery partygoer on the table, alongside the e-fit produced from Maureen McConnell’s description.
Tinkerman stared at both, his colour rising.
‘You’ve grown your hair an
d a bushy new beard,’ said Noble. ‘But that’s you at a party thrown by Stephen Frazer and Iain Nolan, the first victims of the Champagne Killer. The woman you spoke to there, Maureen, identified you.’
‘Oh God.’ Tinkerman put his head in his hands and loosed off a groan. He pulled his hands through his beard and away, coming to a decision. ‘It’s not what it looks like.’
‘What does it look like?’ said Noble.
‘After Alison …’ Tinkerman managed to engage their eyes. ‘My wife. She died.’
‘We know. It’s on your personnel file. Along with a record of your visits to a bereavement counsellor.’
‘That was over a year ago. I loved my wife. I still do. I was grief-stricken. We were planning to start a family.’
‘Hit you hard, no doubt,’ said Noble.
‘I don’t mind admitting it,’ said Tinkerman. ‘Or that it took me a while to get over it. Haven’t you ever lost someone close to you? I mean, so close that they’ve become a part of your very being, so that you exist together or not at all.’ He glanced down at the picture. ‘I realise I should have said something when they were murdered, but …’
‘You were embarrassed.’
He nodded. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got nothing against gay people. Stephen and Iain were lovely guys, very considerate and thoughtful …’
‘But if your team found out …’
‘Exactly. I was at a low ebb, and when they invited me to the party, I just needed some company. I knew it was a mistake as soon as I got there. A couple of the guys in my squad wouldn’t have understood. At the very least, I’d be the butt of station gossip for the rest of my days, and I wasn’t mentally strong enough for that kind of attention just then. I have to lead, Brook. You must know about that, about being in control. I have to know the guys trust me. I’m not proud, but it’s not like I had any information to give.’
‘So you kept silent.’
He lowered his head. ‘This can’t be happening.’ He gestured at the photographs. ‘Why is this relevant to anything?’
‘I think I should remind you that you’re entitled to have your rep here to look out for your interests.’
‘But I’ve done nothing wrong.’ Brook and Noble were silent, letting him work it out for himself, giving Charlton no cause for complaint. ‘Jesus Christ. You think I’m this serial killer?’
‘Are you?’
‘No! Why would I kill those people?’
‘You tell us.’
‘I didn’t do it.’
‘Not even Sean Trimble?’ said Brook, pushing his photograph back towards Tinkerman.
‘He was shot dead after the killer had murdered his father and his partner,’ said Noble.
‘At least they died together,’ said Brook. ‘Like the Thorogoods at Black Oak Farm.’
‘Black Oak Farm?’ said Tinkerman, his brow furrowing.
‘Nasty business, that,’ said Brook.
Tinkerman stared. ‘I remember. I was there.’
‘Two people dying in each other’s arms,’ said Brook. ‘That’s the way to go, isn’t it?’
Tinkerman smiled bitterly. ‘You think I killed them as well?’
‘Far from it,’ said Brook. ‘But I think you admired the way they died.’
Tinkerman’s smile froze on his lips. ‘Am I under arrest?’
‘No, Sergeant,’ said Brook. ‘We’re just having a friendly chat, in strictest confidence, of course. This goes no further.’
Tinkerman scraped back his chair and glared at him. ‘Then I’m out of here.’
‘What do you think?’ asked Noble, outside the interview room.
Brook considered. ‘He was very convincing.’
‘You noticed?’
‘But then all organised serials are. They rehearse the endgame a million times in their heads until they’re word-perfect.’
‘The grief is still raw,’ added Noble. Brook nodded doubtfully. ‘Something wrong?’
‘His reaction to Sean Trimble.’
‘Well thank you for treading carefully,’ complained Charlton, marching towards them.
‘We didn’t accuse him, sir,’ said Noble. ‘He opened that door on his own.’
‘Just the same, I’d like you to make the call to the Chief Constable. Explain yourselves.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Brook. ‘Tinkerman won’t be taking out a grievance. We were talking in confidence.’
‘You sound very sure.’
‘He’s not going to hide his connection to Frazer and Nolan for so long then start blabbing to his rep. We don’t have a scrap of evidence and he knows that, so unless we make the first move, he’s going to wait and see.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Charlton.
‘Besides,’ continued Brook, ‘it’s not him.’
Charlton stared. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said cautiously. ‘How do you know?’
‘Sean Trimble was our pressure point,’ said Noble. ‘He didn’t deserve to die alone. It wasn’t part of the grand plan and the killer would feel remorse.’
‘But Tinkerman showed us nothing,’ said Brook. ‘Not a flicker of regret.’
‘What were you expecting?’
‘Once an organised serial killer has started to escalate, it’s the beginning of the end,’ said Brook. ‘They’re coming to terms, preparing themselves for it to be over.’
‘And when the game is done,’ said Noble, ‘the only thing left to do is tell the world about the beautiful work of art they’ve created, and why.’
‘So unless he’s suffering from an extreme form of dissociative disorder, Tinkerman isn’t our man or he would’ve crumbled and told us everything.’
‘Well,’ said Charlton, nodding. ‘Good. Assuming you don’t want to interrogate every AFO in the county, I’d better see about retracing Fry’s route from Ticknall and finding his other weapons …’
Banach burst into the incident room. ‘Inspector, your daughter’s here.’
‘My daughter?’ Brook’s look of confusion gave way to concern when he saw Banach’s grave expression. ‘What?’
Brook stood outside the unremarkable row of terraced houses in Ripley. A flash of headlights from a parked police car caught his eye and he trotted over to the driver’s side, a detective from County lowering the window to acknowledge him. ‘Inspector Brook.’
‘DS York,’ said Brook, remembering the name thanks to Noble’s recent prompt.
‘My DC’s watching the back. She’s definitely in there. Tell me when you want to drop the flag.’
‘Would you mind if we went in to get her,’ said Brook. ‘I’d like to keep it low-key.’
‘You realise you’re on our turf,’ said York.
Brook smiled. ‘Of course. But she’s one of our own.’
‘And armed …’
‘If the balloon goes up, you can come in hard and heavy,’ said Brook. After a few seconds, York nodded. ‘We appreciate it.’
Brook gestured at colleagues and approached the garden gate as Banach, Smee and Read followed Noble from the other direction.
Noble was finishing a call. ‘That was Cooper,’ he said. ‘Caskey was off duty during Frazer and Nolan as well as Gibson’s parents.’
‘And AWOL for the Ticknall shootings,’ added Brook.
‘You don’t really believe she’s capable?’ said Banach.
‘Everybody’s capable, Angie,’ said Brook.
‘It’s not in her,’ insisted Banach. ‘Trust me.’
‘You saw the security film from Reardon’s flat,’ said Noble. ‘She was waving a gun around, trying to break in.’
‘And just a few days ago she tried to get herself killed at an armed stand-off,’ said Brook. ‘That’s a classic sign-off from an escalating serial killer.’
‘Her partner was murdered,’ said Banach. ‘She’s got issues.’
‘Or she was feeling guilty about the death of Sean Trimble,’ said Noble.
‘Enough.’ Brook gestured at the hous
e. ‘Let’s get this done. We’ll unpick everything at the station.’
‘I still think we should have the heavy mob go in first,’ said Noble. ‘She’s armed, remember, and a crack shot.’
‘We do that and she’s liable to start shooting,’ said Brook, rapping on the door. ‘She’s reconciled, trust me. We try reason first.’
The door opened and Caskey’s tired eyes creased into a smile. She seemed smaller than Brook remembered, diminished, leaning against the door jamb of her nondescript terraced house, dressed in white T-shirt and jeans torn at one knee, hair scraped away from her make-up-free face.
‘Inspector Brook. John. Angie. What a nice surprise. Have you come to clear me for duty?’ She smiled at their hard expressions. ‘I guess not. At least you didn’t bring a rubber suit.’
‘You’ll get a fair hearing, Rachel,’ said Banach, trying to load sympathy into her voice. ‘It’s a professional process.’
‘And if only I’d been the same, right?’
‘Let’s not do this on the doorstep,’ said Brook.
‘Course. Come in and get comfortable.’ Caskey turned and padded barefoot along the uncarpeted hall towards the stark kitchen, the footsteps of her three colleagues pounding on the boards behind her. Brook looked in on the tiny lounge as they passed. It contained a dog-eared armchair facing a three-bar electric fire. No lamps, no other furnishings and no TV. Nothing except a well-thumbed picture of an attractive young blonde woman grinning from a platform of the Eiffel Tower, Blu-Tacked roughly to the grubby wallpaper of the chimney breast.
Banach widened her eyes at Brook and Noble when she saw the bareness of the room.
‘Cup of tea?’ asked Caskey, waving an arm at the tiny kitchen table with three old-fashioned wooden chairs around it. No one sat.
‘We don’t …’
‘Why not?’ said Brook, ignoring Noble’s admonishing glance. ‘We have time.’
‘Good,’ grinned Caskey, flicking on the kettle. She turned to see her colleagues staring at the barren room. ‘Bet you’ve not seen a place this comfortable since your last crack-den bust.’
‘I’ve seen worse,’ said Brook, his voice clipped and tight. Caskey seemed at peace – often the way once a fate was sealed. The anxiety of carrying a secret was too much for many, and unloading that burden brought release, even levity.