More Equal Than Others. The DS Lasser series. Volume five: Robin Roughley

by Robin Roughley

  'But why would Rimmer bother transferring Cropper over to Manchester?'

  'That's what I want to know.'

  Lasser clicked his fingers. 'Redgrove?'

  'I know what you're thinking Lasser, Redgrove shits himself when one of his 'team' goes ape and beats up Barton.'

  'It makes sense, I mean, if what Cropper said was true about trying to arrange a meeting with Redgrove and being given the brush off then...'

  'But we can't prove it.'

  Lasser ignored him as his brain went into overdrive. 'And we know Mills and Redgrove are up each other's arses.'

  'Hardly something we can accuse them of though is it?'

  'I know, but Mills warned you to keep away from Redgrove and he in turn threatened me by saying he would contact Mills and get me kicked off the force. So when Cropper lost the plot Redgrove panicked, and who does he ring to pull a few strings?'

  'Alright, alright, I'm not a bloody idiot Lasser but Mills is hardly going to hold his hands up is he?'

  'Redgrove wants it all brushed under the carpet, the last thing he would have wanted was someone like Cropper shouting about how the cuts have led to paedophiles wandering the streets with no one to monitor them.'

  'I get it, Lasser...'

  'And according to Sid the Landlord, Steven Barton lived in one of those new apartments near the park.'

  Bannister frowned. 'Are you sure?'

  'Look, Sid might be a miserable old sod but he's no bull shitter.'

  'I didn't know this was your local, sergeant?'

  Lasser shrugged. 'It used to be one of them.'

  'So what was a pervert like Barton doing living the high life in a new build apartment?'

  'Redgrove wanted to keep him sweet?'

  Bannister flicked the stump down the alleyway. 'Well Barton's grassing days are well and truly over and even if what you say is true then we have no way to prove any of it.'

  Lasser tugged at his earlobe in agitation.

  'And it still gets us no nearer to catching this maniac. I mean, Redgrove might have tried to cover his arse and Mills might have helped but none of this is relevant, sergeant.'

  Lasser tried to forge links but Bannister was right, Redgrove and Mills might be bent but they could hardly be blamed for the axe-wielding lunatic who was wiping out the perverts.

  Lasser felt his phone begin to vibrate, digging it free he checked the number and frowned when no name flashed up.

  'Hello.'

  'Sir it's me.'

  'Coyle?'

  'You told me to get in touch if anything turned up on the database.'

  'You've found something?'

  'I'm not sure but I think you need to come and take a look.'

  'Yeah well, I'm a little tied up at the moment.'

  'Oh, ok.'

  'Can't you just give me a breakdown?'

  Susan Coyle cleared her throat. 'Eighteen months ago the Merseyside force pulled a body from the river, minus his arms, legs and head.'

  'Gangland?'

  'That's what I thought at first but the head turned up two days later, it was left on the steps of the Walker art gallery.'

  Lasser frowned in surprise. 'Do we have a name?'

  'Clive Furlong, according to records he'd been released from Walton six months earlier.'

  'What had he been in for?'

  'He worked at a special needs school; apparently he was caught with one of the pupils in the stock room.'

  Lasser sighed. 'Go on.'

  'He served two years for gross indecency; the girl was six with special needs.'

  Lasser glanced at Bannister who had another cigarette on the go.

  'Yeah, well good riddance.'

  'The thing is we have a similar case in Manchester.'

  'How similar?'

  'Robert James Booth, decapitated, head placed on the steps of the central station.'

  'Train station?'

  'No sir, police station.'

  Lasser's eyes sprang wide in shock. 'Where are you now, Susan?'

  'Still at the station, sir.'

  'Right I'll be there in ten.'

  'Ok I'll be here.'

  Lasser ended the call.

  'What's the matter now sergeant?'

  By the time Lasser had finished, Bannister's eyes were flickering back to life. 'Right come on, let's check this out.'

  'What about Barton?'

  'Fuck him,' Bannister spat as he headed towards his car.

  Lasser shrugged and followed.

  CHAPTER 98

  Brewster drove around aimlessly. Too scared to go back to the apartment, he kept doing continuous loops of the town watching as the fuel needle sunk slowly towards empty.

  Turning right, he drove onto the Asda car park and looked for somewhere to park. Trouble was he couldn't shake the terror, he had no idea what the killer looked like. A man stepped out from between the parked cars and Brewster slammed on the brakes. The figure stopped and looked in through the windscreen a frown on his face. Brewster licked his lips, his heart hammering, pulse racing.

  When the man moved away, Brewster heaved a heavy sigh of relief.

  The killer could be watching him right now, waiting until he climbed from the car and then...

  Brewster did a hurried U-turn and drove back off the car park.

  'Calm down for fucks sake,' he hissed.

  Catching sight of his reflection in the rear view mirror, he swallowed. As far as the killer was concerned, Brewster had followed his orders but what would he do when he found out he'd been unsuccessful in getting Lewis to print the list of names?

  An image of the editor reared in his head, this was all his fault. 'Back stabbing, two faced cunt!' he roared.

  Lewis had been only too willing to print the inside story of the killer when it suited him and now he was leaving Brewster dangling.

  He pulled out without checking the flow of traffic, someone leaned on their horn and Michael gasped and slammed on the brake, he could see a raised fist shaking in the car opposite, a blob of a face glaring at him.

  'Sorry,' Brewster held up an apologetic hand, the fist shook one more time then the driver swept past. Fumbling with the gears, Brewster lifted his foot from the clutch too quickly and the engine stalled.

  'Shit, shit, shit,' he turned the key; the engine whirred and then died.

  All around horns began to blast out.

  'Come on, come on!' Yanking at the key he tried again, the engine spluttered but refused to start. Brewster hammered his hands on the wheel of the small two-seat sports car and then he began to rock back and forth as if this could somehow fire the engine back to life.

  When someone rapped their knuckles on the side window, he cried out in fear.

  'You want a push mate?' The man mouthed in at him.

  Brewster fought with the seatbelt the panic breaking lose and morphing into terror.

  'Go away!' he shouted.

  The man smiled and nodded and then he was behind the car pushing. Brewster felt the car move forward, twisting in his seat; he looked through the back window as the man grinned in at him.

  Suddenly the monster had a face, blond hair and a flimsy moustache, the figure continued to push. Left with no alternative, Brewster turned the wheel pointing the car towards the side of the road. The camber began to dip and the car picked up speed, Brewster glanced into the mirror and cried out in relief when he saw the man climbing back into a white Volkswagen Golf.

  For a few miserable seconds Michael Brewster thought he had wet himself and then he bumped onto the curb. Yanking on the handbrake, he placed his forehead on the dinky steering wheel, palms greased with sweat his head bloated with fear.

  He had no idea how long he sat paralysed behind the wheel. Eventually, he lifted his head and turned the key, the engine wheezed, the battery died, the headlights flared for a moment and then flickered off.

  Two more desperate attempts and Brewster knew he was going nowhere. The windscreen seemed to fill with red taillights, the sm
all car closed in around him. Suddenly, he had the image of an axe bright and shining cold coming in through the vinyl roof and lodging into his skull.

  With a yelp, he slammed the door open and scrambled from the car. Traffic swept past, his lank hair dancing in the draught.

  Brewster turned and started to run, he had no idea where he was going, he just knew that he had to get away.

  CHAPTER 99

  Medea sprinkled the grated cheese onto the shepherd's pie before sliding it into the oven. Pulling the wine from the fridge, she popped the cork and poured herself a glass, taking a sip before heading into the lounge. Clicking on the television, she flicked through the channels and frowned when she came across a local news bulletin.

  The image on the screen showed Market Street lit up with swirling blue lights. Medea slid onto the sofa and turned up the volume.

  'As yet we have no name for the deceased but it's believed the body is that of a male in his mid thirties.'

  The camera panned around to the front of the Ship Inn, Medea could see two police officers standing guard by the front door. Then she almost spilled her wine as Lasser and Bannister came out of the entrance. Chewing her lip, she leaned forward. It had only been an hour since Lasser had headed off into the night but they must have been a hard sixty minutes. He looked drained, completely worn out as if carrying some invisible weight on his shoulders.

  Medea felt a swell of concern, this job was slowly sucking the life energy from him, another ten years and he would look old before his time.

  The camera zipped back to the reporter; he had a sorrowful frown plastered across his insincere face. 'It's believed the man died in the toilets, though as yet we have no idea how he died.'

  'Do you have any idea if it's related to the other killings in the town, Paul?' A voice from the studio asked.

  'No Emma, the police are refusing to comment at the moment, though obviously people are concerned that it might well turn out to be the case.'

  'And do we know if the police are any nearer to catching the killer?'

  The reporter shook his head. 'Well earlier on, I was at a meeting held by Superintendant Mills and according to him the police are doing all they can. He says they have a number of leads that they are strenuously following.'

  'But no imminent arrests?'

  'It's hard to say, Emma, but of course, if this latest killing is linked to the others then it means the killer is still at large.'

  Over the reporters right shoulder, Medea saw Lasser climbing into his car, a couple of seconds later he pulled away from the curb, the blue lights beneath the radiator grills flashing.

  Before the report ended, she caught sight of Alan Bannister driving past, his face a smear in the side window.

  With a sigh, she turned the volume down and took a sip from her glass, the wine tasted sickly sweet on her tongue.

  Occasionally, Lasser would talk about maybe making a career change, do something nine to five, something that would allow him to lead a normal life. Medea had always brushed the notion aside, convinced that despite the drawbacks he loved his job.

  She tried to imagine him stuck behind a desk in some nondescript office. Medea shook her head; the job might be sapping his will, though she knew he would find it hard to cope with the mundane.

  It was a ‘no-win’ situation, he either stayed in the job and struggled on, or he left and lived a half life.

  Medea wondered what he had seen in the public house that had left him looking so distraught. She shuddered, whatever it was it wouldn't have been a pleasant sight.

  Slipping her legs onto the sofa, she dug the mobile from her pocket and looked at the blank screen. Placing the glass on the coffee table, she eased back into the sofa and closed her eyes. Medea tried to ignore the small voice in her head that whispered is this what you really want, to spend the rest of your life waiting, waiting for Lasser to come home, only to be dragged back out again to yet more horror and misery?

  The time they spent together was good, she loved being with him but what would it be like in two, three years time? Could she really cope with the stress, would she be able to live a fragmented life, one in which she was always left wondering if he would make it back home at the end of his shift?

  Medea drifted off to sleep, every few minutes she would moan as her mind tried to square the circle.

  She never heard the handle on the back door turn, never heard the dull thump as a shoulder hit the woodwork.

  CHAPTER 100

  Susan Coyle pointed at the screen, Bannister and Lasser stood behind her, the DCI leant over her shoulder as he read the report.

  'Three months between the two attacks.'

  'Yes sir, Furlong died in September 2013 and Booth in November.'

  'Furlong was killed down by the river is that right?' Lasser asked.

  'Place of death was inconclusive sir, I've glanced through the report and all it says is that the body was spotted floating in the river by a local man on his way to work.'

  'Do we have any idea where he'd been that day?

  'The Walker art gallery...'

  'The place where they found his head?'

  Coyle nodded. 'When they pulled the body from the river he had a ticket in his pocket, they checked, and according to the file they have him on camera entering the museum at ten in the morning.'

  'What time did he leave?'

  'Er hang on,' Coyle tapped a couple of keys and scrolled down the screen. 'Seven o’clock, sir.'

  Lasser frowned. 'So he was in there for eight hours?'

  'Actually sir, it's nine hours.'

  Bannister gave Lasser a gruelling look and shook his head.

  'So I'm shit at maths.'

  'Yes, and your writing leaves a lot to be desired as well, sergeant.' Bannister sighed. 'So what was he doing for nine hours?'

  'Well I don't know if this has anything to do with it but I used to go there a lot when I was a kid,' Coyle said.

  'Go on.'

  She turned in her seat. 'Well it's a favourite place for school trips; I mean we used to go every year, sometimes twice. If we were doing a project then the teachers would take us there to learn about the Egyptians or the Romans,'

  Bannister nodded. 'And a paedophile would love it wandering around pretending to look at the exhibits when really he was scoping out the kids.'

  Coyle looked up at him and blushed. 'That's what I was thinking, sir.'

  'Right, what about the other one?'

  'Booth had done a two year stretch in Strangeways for assault and buggery.'

  'Of a minor?'

  'Sixteen, sir, his name was Harvey Collier, according to the file he was a rent boy.'

  'Was he questioned about Booth's death?'

  'He'd already moved out of the area, apparently he went to stay with relatives down in London three weeks before Booth died.'

  'And you said they found Booth's head on the steps of the station?'

  'Yes sir, but the rest of the body has yet to be discovered.'

  Lasser leant over her shoulder and scrolled down the screen.

  'So we're still none the wiser,' Bannister said. 'I mean we have no idea if these men were connected.'

  'Well I checked sir, and neither Booth or Furlong served time together.'

  Bannister pursed his lips. 'Nevertheless, good work, Susan.'

  Coyle's blush deepened and Lasser threw her a sideways grin before turning back to the screen.

  'Right Lasser, come on, we might as well get going.' Bannister turned and headed towards the door, Lasser carried on reading the information on the screen.

  Bannister stopped and turned. 'Sergeant?'

  Lasser held up a hand. 'Just give me a sec,' he replied as he tapped at the keys.

  'Found something?' Bannister asked as he retraced his steps.

  'Look at this.'

  'What am I looking at?'

  'It says here that following his release Furlong was taken in for questioning after loitering around an infant school a
t two in the afternoon. He was released with a caution, according to him he was on his way to the shops, but the teacher on playground duty said he was there for over fifteen minutes.'

  'Yes well, that's hardly a surprise, sergeant.'

  Lasser nodded and then pressed a button, the page vanished to be replaced by another. 'Same thing with Booth, six weeks after release he's spotted hanging around a local park.'

  'Let me guess he was feeding the ducks?'

  Lasser looked at his boss in surprise. 'How did you know that?'

  'Come on Lasser use your head, a weirdo walking around a park full of kids will draw attention to himself in seconds. Some of them buy a dog to make them seem more normal.'

  Lasser thought of Sanderford and old Bess. 'Soft as your pocket,' the late Bert Woods had said.

  'Failing that, they carry something so they can say they have a legitimate reason for being there and most parks have duck ponds,' he shrugged, as if the rest was self-explanatory.

  Lasser nodded in admiration, Coyle looked at her boss as if he had suddenly morphed into Sherlock Holmes.

  Bannister sniffed. 'So they were both collared for loitering, it's hardly earth shattering news.'

  Lasser pointed at the screen. 'Booth was questioned by a sergeant Mack.'

  'So?'

  Lasser flicked to the other page. 'See.'

  Bannister leant forward, Coyle frowned.

  'The same sergeant also questioned Furlong,' she said in confusion.

  Bannister shrugged. 'Maybe they did a ‘Cropper’ and perhaps Furlong was whisked off to Manchester.'

  'Not according to this.' Lasser tapped the screen.

  Bannister folded his arms. 'So we have Furlong in Liverpool, questioned by a John Mack and then a few weeks later Booth is dragged in and this Mack fella is there again.'

  'So what was he doing working in two different cities?' Lasser asked.

  'Well he must have been transferred I mean, you worked over in the Pool for a while didn't you sergeant?'

  'Well yeah...'