by G. M. CLARK
So that leaves only two twisted individuals to check out off the bat, Ernie Taggs and Ray Thomson. Jeez, isn’t it just heart-warming to know that these guys are now cut loose and free to roam through the neighbourhoods again, just makes you feel comforted now doesn’t it? I know where to find Ernie; he’d be back to home base.
We find Ernie back at one of his usual haunts, an old seedy pub down a side street, called Mick’s. It reeks of stale beer and rancid, cheap cigarettes, with the unmistakable odour of urine. As we walk through, I can feel my shoes actually sticking to the floor – I refuse to look at exactly what it is. Ernie is easy to spot, propped up at the bar. His balding head is shining in the cheap spotlights, the crooked nose and pot belly jutting together in a similar alignment. A pint of beer lies almost finished beside him, with several empties nearby.
‘Hello Ernie,’ I say. ‘Long time no see.’
His head swivels round, the glazed eyes staring at me for some sort of recognition. His eyes grow darker, the hooded brows gather under his sweaty lined brow, the nostrils flare. Ah, that’s more like it –now he remembers me. It’s good to know that I’m not forgettable.
‘Ya fuckin’ pig – what d’ya want?’ Snarling, he tries to jump off the bar stool, but only succeeds in colliding with the bar. Mack steps closer, letting him know he’s there.
‘Been doing anything you shouldn’t have lately?’ I ask, trying to keep my tone level. I don’t like the look of some of the other nutcases in this joint; God only knows what weapons some of them are carrying.
‘I haven’t been doing anything,’ he moans.
‘Where were you last week?’ I try to avoid his reeking breath.
‘Any specific day?’ The answer is so cocksure, it pissed me right off.
‘Let’s start with yesterday and work backwards.’ I smile, with a slight snarl.
He snorts out loud, saliva dribbling down one side of his bloated cheek.
‘Ask Mick here – I been here every day and night for weeks, he can vouch for me.’
I glance at Mick, standing behind the bar; he nods his head in full agreement. Now I wonder why I’ve got the feeling that good old Mick would vouch for a damn dog in a pinstriped suit drinking in here, as long as the price was right.
‘He’s been here all the time just like he says,’ says Mick, with a smirk.
‘What time does he get here?’ I casually ask.
‘After the afternoon’s drinking he usually comes back around five.’
‘What time does he leave?’
‘About midnight.’ Mick’s looking bored already.
‘How much does he drink?’
Mick laughs. ‘Enough so he can’t stand, let alone piss.’
There isn’t much else I can ask.
‘I’m going to be keeping a special eye on your prime establishment Mick, to make sure everything’s above board and legal.’ He doesn’t look as though he cares much. So much for my veiled threat, perhaps I’m getting out of practice.
‘Be seeing you Ernie.’
‘Real soon.’ Mack adds, thumping him hard on the back, so that his whole body rattles.
Ernie couldn’t have given a rat’s ass, and I have a gut feeling that he isn’t our man; still, it’s worth putting a tail on him. Who knows, he could’ve killed any of them during the day, easy, and then come to the pub at night. I make the necessary phone calls; Ernie is going to be watched.
Rain drenches us to the very skin, erupting again from the sky like a never-ending waterfall, pounding through every ounce of clothing. As we haul open another pub door, lightning whips across the sky, the sharp forks illuminating overhead. We’re tired, bone weary. We’ve spent the last few hours searching for Ray Thomson, with no luck. Nobody has seen him, or heard of him. If anyone knows where he is, they sure aren’t for telling. We decide to call it a day and I head home, the water still dripping from my hair, down onto my nose, and finally splashing onto my coat. Cranking up the heat I try to stop shivering, my whole body seemingly in a permanent state of tremble.
Connie is already fast asleep in bed, so I slip into the shower, tossing the soaking clothes onto the tiled floor – yes, I know she’ll moan later, but I don’t really care. I turn the shower up full blast and step into the hot, steaming jets. As I reach for the bar of soap, a hand covers mine.
‘Want me to scrub your back?’ she asks.
‘I thought you were sleeping.’
‘First rule of policing, never presume anything. So, do you want your back scrubbed or not?’ Smiling, she lathers up her hands.
I yank her inside. ‘I can think of better things to do.’ I pull her towards me hard, kissing her neck and then moving further down; she feels so damn good and so damn right.
Tonight I don’t want to think of anything but you, I think.
It doesn’t work. The dreams of mutilated bodies repeat through the night.
I need to catch his footsteps – tick, tick, tick.
CHAPTER 14
I drive out to the outskirts of the city; it takes a while to get there because the traffic is so damn bad. Once there though, the streets are relatively quiet. The trees, bare from the winter, overhang the houses like guards forever watchful. Small children play contentedly in the streets, wrapped up in luminous warm clothes, but somewhat oblivious to the cold as children are. At last I see number 47; it’s an attractive mature Victorian house, with tall rising ivy that surrounds the entrance, though on closer inspection I can see that the façade is crumbling slightly. The grass outside is still a vivid hue of green and the garden generally looks well-tended. I pull the door chime and somewhere in the house I hear doors banging. As she opens the door I see the instant recognition on her face, and she recoils. I don’t blame her; I’ve had that effect on many women over the years.
‘I’m sorry to intrude Mrs Garland, but I have a few more questions that I need to ask.’
‘Come in,’ is her quiet reply, although I know she doesn’t want me to set foot inside her home. I can understand why.
She ushers me into a pale ivory lounge where a grand piano stands gracefully in one corner, family pictures in gilt-edged frames adorning its sleek black surface, polished and pristine. The fire is lit, bathing the room in a soft, dappled orange glow. I can see photograph albums on the ornate, carved maple coffee table; she is quite obviously a woman of some wealth. Why does that surprise me?
‘I have the funeral directors coming soon to make arrangements, so if you could make it quick,’ she says.
‘No problem.’ I hesitate for a moment, unsure of how to phrase my words.
‘Could you tell me how long Kathy had been living at the flat?’
‘Oh, for about four years.’ she says, folding her hands together.
‘Did she have many boyfriends, especially any that majored in English?’
‘Only a couple that I knew of, none of them were exactly what you’d call intellectual. I already gave you this information.’ She sounds weary.
‘I know ma’am, I’m just clarifying a few points,’ I gently probe. ‘Did she have a lot of female friends?’
‘One or two from work that she used to go out drinking with occasionally, but not what you’d call a special best friend.’
‘No one from her school that she’d kept in contact with?’ I try to question further.
‘Inspector Downey, we moved around a lot. My late husband used to be in the diplomatic service – he died a few years ago.’
Silence.
She twists her wedding band around and around as if it comforts her.
‘It’s a very sad day when you have to bury your only child.’ It’s almost a whisper.
‘Yes ma’am.’ I don’t know what else to say.
‘It’s not right is it? It’s not the way God intended. I should have gone first.’
‘May I ask if Kathy had any inheritances from her father?’
Her head jerks up, annoyance and disdain clearly flickering across her face.
&nb
sp; ‘Yes, she did, but she wasn’t eligible for them until she was thirty.’
She starts to sob, so quietly now – tears run down her cheeks, like small, silent streams of unfathomable grief. And so I wait… until she very slowly stops.
I detest having to ask more questions, especially when she is so visibly distressed, but it is part and parcel of my job, and I have to press on.
‘May I ask what happens to the inheritance now?’
‘The money – oh it goes back into the estate.’
‘And your next beneficiary is?’
‘I suppose it’s Samantha, my sister.’ She takes a pristine white linen hankie out and dabs at her face, the eyes red and sore.
Glancing out of the window I see a black car pull up in front of the house; time to make a move.
‘Once again, my sincere condolences.’
She snaps her head up, her voice riddled with rancour.
‘I don’t want condolences – I want that damn killer found!’
My mobile phone goes off on the drive back; snapping it open I listen to Mack. Headquarters have had an anonymous call; there was evidence left at Frankie’s house that we missed. It seems odd, but we have no choice but to go and take another look. I take a hard left and swing back towards Frankie’s house; Mack and forensics will meet me there. My mind is filled with pictures of Mrs Garland, preparing the funeral of her only child. As coppers we are taught to detach ourselves from cases, but this one has dug right into the pit of my stomach, and it’s like a knife twisting inside with every added murder. What she needs is closure – and I’m determined to bring it to her, one way or another.
I draw up outside the old house. Cars are lined up on both sides of the street; Mack as usual is lighting up a cigarette and stomping his feet in frustration at my time of arrival.
‘Could you have been any slower?’ he says.
‘You know I always do my best.’ I flick him a smile.
‘I don’t doubt you.’ A fake smirk, along with tired eyes — he’s as fed up as me.
‘Smart man.’ I say, patting his back. ‘So what are we have supposed to have missed?’ My tone is disbelieving, and I don’t bother to try to hide it.
‘Who the hell knows?’
‘Well let’s go see, shall we?’
We don the usual protective suits, not usually needed after the search has already been completed, but if someone says we missed something it’s better to be safe than sorry. I’m pretty sure this is a complete waste of time that only professional crank callers knew how to throw our way; but hey, you never know.
One step at a time – the clues are always there, you just need to find them.
Detective Davies, head of the forensic team follows us inside. We move carefully through each room; it’s as though an air of desolation has overtaken the house, the soul of it ripped out with Frankie’s death. I can see nothing new. We search the sinks, the bath, and even remove the panels. Forensics move around with the Luma-Lite, but nothing else is there.
Jesus Christ, when are we ever going to get a damn break? I move through to the back bedroom and remember this is where the dismemberment took place. The sheets are still covered in stains, already checked again by forensics, but it’s still like a goddamn bloodbath. The walls have blood splatters indicative of the severing of the head, the arteries must have still been pumping to have reached that high up on the wall. I notice that his collections of memorabilia have been ransacked.
‘Your guys?’
‘Nope,’ replies Davies.
‘Get them bagged and down to the station,’ I reply, suddenly paying more interest.
I pick up an old photograph album and flip through the pages. For the first time I can see what the old man actually looked like through the years. Looks like he had a nice family, happy – they would be happy no more, not one single solitary day would go by when they don’t remember Frankie, and the way he died. Not for the first time since the Kathy Garland case, I feel utter despair wash through me.
I’ve seen all I needed to see; yes, some nutter had got back into the house to see what he could find, but apart from ransacking the joint, we’ve turned up nothing fresh – I knew it was a crank call. Davies is already out the front door, with Mack close behind him. I’ve just put my hand on the door frame when the phone inside starts to ring. I glanced back, unsure whether to go and pick it up. That moment’s hesitation saves my life.
The resounding bang of the bomb rips through the building, catapulting us out of the house. Flames lick at the walls as the windows blow out, glass flying like shrapnel, hailing down on us. I see Davies being hurled onto a car, then bouncing into the street. The noise is deafening; a roaring fills my head as another explosion rips through the house, fire raging through the ceiling and licking the night’s air. Response cars quickly arrive at the scene, with their sirens blaring, and I can hear the ambulances in the far-off distance. Coppers rush at the house from all angles.
‘Stay back,’ I scream. No one can hear me above the flames.
Another bang, and this time the whole house starts to crumble. I manage to crawl on my hands and knees to what I think is a safe distance, but others aren’t so lucky. I can hear the screams of coppers on fire, their hair matted in flames, their flesh being melted from their bones. It is total carnage and utter chaos. I struggle to get to my feet, my breathing laboured. A car draws up beside me and I feel a hand grab my jacket and haul me in; the accelerator pedal is floored and we disappear into the night. I strain through smoky eyes and see Mack’s face sitting beside me. Holy God, I think, we were nearly killed.
CHAPTER 15
I glance down at the multitude of bruises on my legs and arms; already they are erupting into a variety of colours, a dull green intertwined with blues and the occasional red. Parts of my skin are lacerated with the shrapnel from glass; I try not to wince when the nurse with Bambi eyes carefully pulls each shard out. Christ it hurts though. I feel like my head has been pounded off a brick wall about a dozen times, and I can feel a small egg-shaped bruise at the front on my hair line. My ribs feel as though I’ve gone twenty rounds with Muhammad Ali – who am I kidding? I’d only last about two, and even that’s if I did a lot of running.
I glance over at Mack. He’s taken a beating just like me; the full, normally ruddy face is pale, almost whitewashed. Two vivid scars run down his left cheek, like a woman’s talons have left their mark. His trousers are covered in impaled glass and his breathing comes slow, but steady; he’s still in shock.
Davies looks the worst; he’s laid out on a trolley while a team of nurses hook him up to IVs, heart monitors and try patching up his ribs. It looks like he has a punctured lung, judging by the rasping, rippling noise coming from the back of his throat. His hair is singed, as are his legs. The stench of burning skin pervades every pore, every fibre of my being, and I feel physically sick. Some son of a bitch set us up. I want to know who, and I want to know why.
Coppers are wheeled past me at speed; some screaming in absolute and utter agony, others are burns victims, sedated so that the medical teams can get their clothes off easier. One goes past and he simply stops breathing; a cardiac team pounces on him from nowhere and proceeds to jump-start his heart back into the land of the living. It nearly gives me a heart attack just watching. Once Bambi has finished with me, I’m helped over to Mack, and we sit on the hospital bed just looking at each other. We both know how close it was, and there’s no need for words at that moment. We both know we were set up – we should have been killed.
Connie runs through the casualty department doors, her hair flying behind her, her face drawn, anxious. I think she really cares about me, you know. Her hands fly to the now rather large, egg on my head, her fingers gently stroking my face. Silent tears slide down her face and her worry lines crease as she glances at Mack. He manages a nod in her direction; she blows him a kiss.
‘What the hell happened?’ she asks.
‘A bomb, or rather several bombs,
at Frankie’s house.’
‘Why the hell did you go back in?’ she fumes.
‘An anonymous tip-off, said we’d missed some forensics. It needed checking.’ God, my head hurts.
‘You could’ve been killed.’ Her hands grab mine tightly.
‘I’m okay.’ Macho man bravado, I know.
‘No one’s okay while this piece of garbage is still on the loose.’ I know she’s right, but there’s sod all I can do about it at the moment.
She helps me into her car, a rented PT Cruiser, all alloys, burgundy metallic paint, and stainless steel. I still wonder why she likes it; perhaps it reminds her of home? I slide along the back seat and try to get comfortable, or at least a position that doesn’t hurt like hell every time the car moves. The traffic is light, and I’m grateful that the flat is only a fifteen minute ride back home; each corner and every pothole, inflicts a little more pain. Connie frequently glances in the rear-view mirror, but doesn’t question me anymore, just keeps checking that I’m still alright. Once back home, she helps lie me down on the couch, props some cushions behind me, and a large glass of whisky is thrust into my hand.
‘Drink, you’ll feel better.’ Now who am I to argue with a good woman? I don’t tell her about the painkillers I’ve already had. I figure she doesn’t really need to know.
I flick on the TV and there on good old Sky, and even the BBC, is the breaking news. Goddamn it, I hate giving them a story. Pictures flash by showing the fury of the fire that ravaged the house and nearly killed, me, Mack and Davies. It was a ruin of burnt mortar and ashes. I sit watching what could have been my own funeral – now isn’t that a nice sobering thought? I take a large gulp of whisky, and then another.