'But they'd understand...'
Redgrove loomed towards his wife who took a hurried backward step, cringing at the anger in his eyes. 'I will not be dictated to by a madman do you understand what I'm saying?'
'I'm not stupid, Neil...'
'Yes well that's debatable, now where's my watch?'
Silvia walked over to the mantelpiece and picked it up. 'It's here.'
Neil grunted and plucked it from her fingers. 'Right, don't wait up,' he said as he walked towards the door.
'Please, Neil.'
He stopped and turned, his features smeared with disgust. 'Why don't you hit the Gin bottle and get an early night, you look like you need it.'
She watched through tear filled eyes as her husband disappeared into the hall, a few seconds later she heard the sound of mumbled conversation then her husband strode past the window heading towards his car.
Silvia stood at the window hoping that somehow he would have a change of heart.
Neil Redgrove didn't even flick her a glance as he drove away down the gravel drive.
CHAPTER 123
The woman behind the reception desk smiled at Lasser as he strode towards her.
'Good afternoon,' she said.
'Hello, I'm looking for Carly Hughes.'
'Could I ask what it's about?'
Lasser dipped into his pocket and pulled out his warrant card. 'Police business,' he said with a grin.
'Oh right, well if you'd like to take a seat I'll give her a ring.'
'No problem.' Crossing the room, he sat down on one of the chairs dotted around the room and rifled through an old copy of Lancashire Life. The back pages taken up with society weddings and functions, when he spotted a photo of Neil Redgrove, looking distinguished in a tuxedo, he frowned and read the caption underneath.
'Local dignitary Neil Redgrove was also present at the charity event.' ''I've got my eye on the golf bag signed by the great Nick Faldo.''
Lasser tossed the magazine back onto the table in disgust. All those people kicked down the road and there was the head of the department splashing out on a bloody golf bag.
'Sergeant Lasser, I'm sorry but Carly's not in at the moment.'
The receptionist said from behind her desk.
Lasser walked over. 'Do you have any idea where she's gone?'
'Apparently, she was feeling unwell and decided to go home.'
'Do you have her home address?'
The woman frowned. 'Well I do but we're not meant to give them out.'
'I understand but this is important.'
If Lasser had expected an argument then he was disappointed.
'I understand,' she replied.
Half a minute later, she handed him a slip of paper.
'When you see her tell her I hope she's feeling better soon.'
Glancing at the address, he nodded. 'Will do and thanks for this.'
She flashed him another toothpaste smile. 'Not a problem.'
Back outside, he nipped into the newsagents for twenty cigs and a Mars bar before heading back to the car. Taking a chunk from the chocolate bar, he punched the address into the sat nav and waited. According to the screen Hughes lived six miles away in Leigh, checking the dashboard clock, he frowned. He'd been on shift for over ten hours and it looked as it was going to be another long one. For a few seconds he considered driving to Suzanne's home, grabbing Medea and driving away from the town, leaving all the drug users and nutters behind. Then he popped the car into gear and pulled away from the kerb with a sigh.
CHAPTER 124
Michael Brewster stood at the ramshackle doorway and looked out into the fading light. His brain whirred like an engine in neutral. He was alive! This one simple fact loosened his bladder and he gasped and pulled out his flaccid member sending a squirt of hot piss against the doorframe of the dilapidated cottage.
Trees and fields surrounded the building and he had absolutely no idea of his location. Somewhere in the trees and owl hooted and he tried to remember when he had last heard the alien bird call. The fact was, he hated the countryside, oh, he hated the town he was living in with it's narrow streets and terraced houses but he hated the great outdoors more.
Stepping outside he sniffed like an animal trying to detect the scent of danger.
The man had told him to wait, told him to count slowly to a thousand before moving a muscle. Brewster had obliged, counting slowly while his heart raced. When he reached the required total, he had remained rooted to the spot his eyes still screwed tight. As time passed, he became convinced that the killer was playing some sadistic game. One in which he would allow Brewster to climb to his feet before slicing off a limb. He'd strained to listen, though the blood thundering through his head had made it an impossibility.
Michael Brewster had no idea how long he remained on the dirt floor, it felt like days. When he eventually moved it was to scuttle crab like across the floor, his eyes mere slits as he headed for the doorway.
The owl hooted again and Michael blinked, amazed by how quickly the light was starting to fade. Wiping a quaking hand under his nose, he started to walk along a path made of chunks of weathered sandstone.
The man had told him he would be in touch, though he hadn't said when or why. Brewster swallowed down the fear, he thought he would have been safe at the hotel but the killer had found him easily. He tried to work out how this had been possible but his mind couldn't concentrate beyond the fact that he was still living and breathing.
Twice he twisted his ankle on the rough stone path, by the time he emerged from the trees he was freezing cold, everything ached, and his brain felt as if it were shorting out under the pressure. A wafer thin moon was on the rise revealing open moorland that stretched away towards a blackened horizon.
When he saw the line of red lights blinking in the distance, he felt relief flood through his body. This was the Pennines; the light belonged to the giant TV mast that stood at the top Winter Hill. It could be seen from miles around, a permanent beacon that pulsated with light.
Michael Brewster set off walking along the narrow lane, his left foot throbbed with pain, his throat felt raw with anguish. Without even realising it, he began to curse low under his breath. This was all Shane Lewis's fault, while he'd been at the mercy of a maniac, the editor no doubt would have been sitting at home with the central heating cranked up full.
An image swept to the forefront of his mind, Lewis sitting on a sumptuous leather sofa, while he'd been forced to endure the terror of crouching on the dirt floor, Lewis sipping a glass of something expensive, while he had been pissing in his pants.
The enormity of the injustice seemed to slam into him from behind, driving him along the moonlit lane, the fury mounting with each step.
He had been the one taking all the risks, the one facing death while Lewis sat behind his desk making a fortune.
The fear fell away and Michael Brewster did what was the norm, he played the blame game and this time there was no doubt who came top of the list.
'Lewis,' he hissed. 'I'll fucking kill you for this.'
The cold moon shone down, lighting the way.
CHAPTER 125
The man watched as Redgrove's red Jaguar pulled onto the car park. Haigh Hall was lit up, light poured from the multitude of small windows, the car park was full of BMWs and Mercedes.
Pulling through the gates, he parked the car and watched as Redgrove climbed free of the Jag before moving to the boot to retrieve a long dark coloured overcoat.
He could see shadows moving beneath the trees as people made their way towards the Hall.
Redgrove shook hands with someone and clapped them on the back before disappearing along the darkened path.
Pulling out his cigarettes, he lit one and took a pensive drag. He tried to formulate a plan but he felt tired and agitated, then the anger in the pit of his stomach writhed, clawing its way up through his chest. The voice of reason told him to start the car and drive away, his work here was done. Without
even realising it, he clicked the door open and stepped out into the crisp clear air. Taking a deep breath he started to walk, the voice inside seemed to shrink, growing fainter until it was nothing more than a low murmur.
The weight of the flat blade thumped against his chest as he walked, matching and then usurping his own heartbeat.
Somewhere deep inside, he realised that it wasn't over, it would never be over.
The tiny voice seemed to splutter like the flame on a gas ring turned down to zero, with a final pop it died altogether and the man smiled, free at last from the shackles he strode towards the Hall.
CHAPTER 126
For some reason Lasser had expected to find the house in the middle of a new build estate. When the sat nav told him to take the next opening on the left, he frowned and pulled up at the entrance to the narrow lane. A thin ribbon of tarmac stretched out into open fields, bordered on either side by gnarly Hawthorne trees.
'This can't be right,' he mumbled before sighing and turning down the lane. He kept one eye on the screen as the small blue arrow moved forward.
'After two hundred yards, you have reached your destination.'
As the tunnel of trees ended, he spotted the house on the left, a squat looking bungalow with twin bay fronted windows, the gates were open so Lasser drove onto the empty driveway and killed the engine before climbing out.
The house was in darkness, a thin breeze rustled through the branches of a twisted cherry tree. Threading his way across a stretch of lawn, he peered along the length of the building. Half way down a cone of pale light shone from a side window so he trudged along the narrow path bordered with Laurel bushes. The window opened onto a large dining room, he could see a vase smashed on the floor, a showering of flowers scattered across the tabletop. Lasser frowned before carrying on to the back of the house, a large patio of granite blocks stretched out into a huge garden of mature trees and bushes. Light from a set of French doors spilled across the patio and onto the short-cropped lawn. When Lasser saw the broken glass strewn across the dark stone, he stopped for a second before striding towards the shattered window. Smashed plates and cups covered the tiled floor of the large kitchen. He could see the spice rack had been yanked from the wall and dumped unceremoniously into the sink. Turning, he looked back at the patio, a heavy cast iron frying pan lay amongst the diamond chips of glass.
Moving back to the window, he poked his head through the gap.
'Anyone home!' he bellowed.
After ten seconds of silence, he dragged a wooden bench from the fence to the window and climbed in through the gap.
'Hello!' he shouted again as he dropped down to the floor. As he moved across the room, the sound of broken crockery beneath his feet sounded brittle like distant gunfire. Reaching the dining room, he could hear the drip of water as it slid off the edge of the table to land on the hardwood floor.
'Carly are you in?' he tried one last time before moving down to a large L-shaped living room, the television lay on its side, a coffee table had been upended sending a bowl of potpourri onto a thick sheepskin rug, the pungent smell of cinnamon hung in the still air.
Lasser ran a hand across his short hair, if this was a break in then why was the heavy pan lying outside the house on the patio and why break all the plates and cups? The place looked as if it had been ransacked as if the thief had been searching for something; either that or someone had lost the plot big time and rampaged from room to room engulfed by a blistering fury.
Lasser thought of Carly Hughes with her sensible shoes and designer glasses swiping the vase off the table, her face twisted in anger as she attacked the spice rack.
Moving back into the hallway, he pushed open the first door on the left, a waft of expensive perfume drifted out to meet him and for a few seconds, he found it impossible to breath. He recognised the scent as Cathy's favourite, he remembered buying her a bottle for her birthday. With a snarl, he pushed the memories away and stepped into the room. In the corner, a desktop computer blinked in hibernation mode. Walking around the bed, he jabbed a random key and the screen pinged to life.
Lasser frowned as he looked at the image on the computer, it showed the burnt out house on Stout Street a fire engine in the background, a jet off high-pressure water cascading down the front of the blackened shell. Tapping another button the news report jittered and then started to play.
'It's believed that the occupant of the property a Mr Clifford Bretherton perished in the blaze, though as yet we have no confirmation as to how Mr Bretherton actually died.'
'There has been talk that he could be yet another victim of the killer, John, can you tell us any more about that?' The voice from the studio asked.
The reporter nodded, his face serious. 'Unfortunately, at the moment the police are saying very little, though I have spoken to one or two of the neighbours who say that Mr Bretherton had only been at the property for a short period of time and that he kept pretty much to himself.'
The screen froze and then leapt back to the beginning, Lasser hit the pause button and looked around the room. Flicking on the light, he slid the bedside drawer open; the small space was full of all the things you'd expect to find, a paperback novel, a jar of moisturising night cream and a rabbit vibrator still in the box.
Pushing it closed with his knee, Lasser checked under the bed before crossing the room and opening the wardrobe door. He had a quick rummage through the hanging clothes before swiping a hand across the top shelf. Standing on tiptoes, he felt the shoebox and flicked at it with his fingertips until he managed to get a grip.
Hoisting it down, he perched on the corner of the bed and flipped off the lid. The photographs had been removed from their sleeves and bound together loosely with an elastic band.
Lifting them out his eyes sprang wide when he saw the first one; it showed Carly Hughes dressed as a schoolgirl complete with pigtailed hair sporting stockings and suspenders. The next one showed her still in the uniform though this time she was on all fours, her backside in the air looking back over her shoulder and pouting. The further through the stack of images he went the more graphic they became, after another dozen solo pictures a man appeared or at least parts of a man. In one she was performing oral sex, looking up wide-eyed with a facade of innocence on her made up face.
The last one showed a naked Carly sat on a bed with a man by her side, he looked to be at least twenty maybe thirty years older than her. He had his arm hooked around her shoulder one huge fist engulfed her left breast, squeezing tight. Lasser could see the skin pulled tight, the nipple poking through the fingers hard and bud like.
Both were grinning for the camera, the man had a thatch of grey hair sprouting from his broad chest, his cock hung down between his spread legs.
Sliding the image into his inside pocket, Lasser placed the photos back in the box and snapped on the lid before placing it back on the shelf.
Dragging out his phone, he rang the station.
CHAPTER 127
Bannister sat behind his desk the phone clamped to his ear. 'Come on Paul nobody's that perfect.'
He'd rung DCI Paul West of the Manchester force to get the lowdown on Ex sergeant John Mack, now he was beginning to wish he hadn't bothered.
'Sorry Alan but the man was a first rate officer.'
Bannister leant back in his chair before plonking his feet on the desk. 'So everyone keeps saying. But if that were the case then why did he jack it all in?'
'I've told you he was pensioned off...'
'But I thought his injuries were minor?'
'They were, but come on, you know what it's like, those in power are always looking to streamline the force...'
'So he jumped before he was pushed?'
'Caused quite a stink I can tell you. Mack wanted to stay on but decisions were made way above my head.'
'Is that why he put in for compensation?'
'Can you blame him? The man gave the best years of his life to the job and then they all but forced him out. I tel
l you I was bloody livid.'
Bannister bit off a sliver of fingernail and spat it onto the floor. 'Why didn't he just dig his heels in. I mean I know they can make life difficult but if his injuries were minor and he was as good as you say, then how did they manage to turn the screw?'
Bannister heard the sigh float down the handset.
'Look, Mack was always keen, always first in line when things got rough...'
Bannister frowned. 'How keen?'
Another sigh, the seconds stretched out. 'On a couple of occasions he'd been up on a disciplinary.'
'The reasons being?'
'Come on you know what it's like in this job, there's always some bastard waiting for you to take a swing and then it's compensation time.'
'So he was up for violent conduct?'
'Twice and on both occasions the charges were dropped but you know what it's like the shit sticks and you get a reputation.'
Bannister thought of Lasser and grunted in agreement.
'One of them was a paedophile who claimed Mack had beaten him up down a back alley.'
'And did he?'
The voice on the phone dropped an octave. 'No he bloody didn't, he was nowhere near when the incident took place.'
'What about the second one?'
'Similar circumstances.'
'You mean another sex offender?'
'Mm, but again it was proved beyond reasonable doubt that Mack wasn't involved.' West sounded like a judge-passing sentence.
'Seems strange two deviants making allegations...'
'Born liars, Alan, you know what these people are like.'
'So where is he now?'
'No idea, I mean the last I'd heard his house was on the market, I called around once, but he wasn't at home.'
'What about a mobile number or email address?'
'No joy, I've tried.'
'Well what about the solicitor who's dealing with his claim, they must have contact details?'
'Look Alan, what's this all about?'
More Equal Than Others. The DS Lasser series. Volume five: Robin Roughley Page 31