by James Raven
And yet it was grossly unfair. George bloody Banks had been selling confiscated drugs. We merely exposed him. Sure, I felt bad about his son, but we weren’t responsible. Banks was the instrument of his own destruction. Even Temple said as much that day he came to see me.
‘George has done a stupid thing,’ he’d said. ‘He brought this on himself, but you know why so surely you can sympathize with him. All I ask is that you kill the story and let us deal with it internally. We’ll sort him out.’
But we hadn’t, and despite what had happened it was a decision I stood by.
‘What do you think the bastard is doing?’ Maggie asked, her frail voice snapping me out of my thoughts.
‘I expect he’s covering his tracks,’ I said. ‘He’ll want to be absolutely certain that there’s no link between Vince and the lottery win before he submits the ticket.’
The lottery ticket. I wondered if Vince had been murdered because of the ticket, or had he been killed for another reason and that little pink slip with the numbers on it was purely incidental?
It was another question to add to the mountain that was building up inside my head. And it wasn’t one the police would be asking. I was pretty sure of that. They had no idea what was really going on and I very much doubted that there would be any evidence to point them in the right direction.
‘What was that?’
Maggie’s panic-filled voice jolted me.
‘I heard something,’ she said. ‘Outside.’
We both listened.
‘There,’ she said.
This time I heard it too. A car on the driveway.
‘He’s back,’ she said.
Five minutes after we heard the car outside the hatch opened and light flooded into the attic. As the ladder was unfolded out of sight I began to experience a rising sense of helpless panic.
Maggie grabbed my arm. I felt her body stiffen. Her breath made a harsh sound. Laura stirred between us, sensing that something was about to happen. I could hear my heart beating like a drum roll.
Was this the end? Was the bastard going to kill us and then go on to claim the lottery cash?
Suddenly he rose up through the ceiling. Head first. It was still covered with the ski mask. Then his body. Dark coat. Dark jumper. Black leather gloves to finish off the guise of Mr Nightmare.
He was carrying a bag which he held up for us to see.
‘I thought you might need feeding,’ he said.
I was taken aback. He wasn’t going to kill us. At least, not yet.
He took several steps across the loft, ducking to avoid a low rafter. Then he tossed the bag towards us. It landed just in front of me.
‘How long are you going to keep us here?’ I asked him.
He just stood there for a moment, staring down at us, and I couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking. He smelled earthy and there was wet mud on his boots.
‘I told you before,’ he said. ‘Until I have the money. It won’t be long now. I just need to be sure it’s safe.’
Laura suddenly realized what was going on and pushed herself against me. I felt her shaking.
‘You’re going to kill us, aren’t you?’ Maggie said, her voice full of anger. ‘Like you killed Vince?’
He took another step forward. He was a large, threatening figure, but there was no way to gauge his reaction beneath the mask.
‘Not if you don’t give me any trouble,’ he said.
I noticed how close he was. I’d actually crawled that far across the chipboard floor before the chain attached to the stanchion prevented me from going any further.
‘Why did you kill Vince?’ Maggie asked.
He shook his head. ‘No more questions. The least said between us the better.’
‘Who are you, for God’s sake,’ she persisted.
He shook his head again. ‘You’re wasting your time, Mrs Cain. So just shut the fuck up.’
I mentally measured the distance between us, weighed up the odds on reaching him. They were not good but there was a chance.
‘You’re a wicked, murdering bastard,’ Maggie yelled at him. ‘How can you do this to us? It’s not right.’
For some reason he didn’t budge. He stood there staring down at her as though shocked by her outburst.
‘Please let us go,’ she wailed. ‘We don’t know who you are. We won’t tell anyone what’s happened.’
‘Sorry,’ he said, his voice so calm it was infuriating. ‘That’s just not going to happen.’
He started to turn.
It was now or never.
I took a deep breath and propelled myself forward. He was caught completely unaware, having misjudged his position relative to mine. He reacted by twisting his body away from me, but he wasn’t quick enough to stop me doing a one-handed rugby tackle.
The chain was attached to my left wrist and this snapped taut as I stretched out as far as I could and wrapped my right arm around his legs. He let out a cry as he lost his balance and fell backwards.
His body crashed down on the floor. I heard Laura scream. I felt the metal cuff cut into my wrist as I clung desperately to his legs, my fingers getting a purchase on his trousers.
I needed to pull him closer so that I could bring my cuffed hand into play. But he started to kick out and I struggled to hold on.
From my sprawled position on the floor I saw Maggie jump to her feet and attempt to help out, but her own chain was shorter and she couldn’t reach the kidnapper. She swore instead. Then I realized that the man had heaved his body up into a sitting position.
Shit.
He grabbed at my hair and yanked it hard. I tried to keep my head down, cheek flat against the floor, but the pain and pressure was unbearable.
Then he was digging his fingers into my arms, trying to prise them away from his legs. It quickly became evident that my assault had been misjudged. It was over almost as soon as it began. He knew that as well as I did.
He battered me until I was forced to let go of his legs in an attempt to cover my head and face. At once he was on his feet. Kicking me as though I was a dead carcass.
‘You bastard,’ he yelled, his voice distorted by rage. ‘You fucking bastard.’
I tried to roll away from him but he didn’t let up. I took a blow to the forehead. Another to the chin. Then suddenly he stopped. And I became aware of a curdled scream erupting from Laura’s mouth.
It wasn’t a normal scream. This was a hysterical, high-pitched cry like nothing I’d heard before or would want to hear again. I opened my eyes to look at her. Maggie was kneeling beside her, trying to calm her down, but Laura seemed unaware of this. Her eyes were closed, her mouth wide open, and the haunting sound that came out was chilling.
I shifted position and glanced up at the kidnapper. He’d stepped back from me, out of reach, and was staring at Laura.
‘Please calm down, sweetheart,’ Maggie was pleading.
I hauled myself across the floor towards them. Pulled myself up on to my knees and wrapped my arms around my daughter. Her body was as stiff as a mannequin. I felt the panicked rhythm of her heart inside her chest.
I squeezed her to me, pressing her face against my shoulder. Felt her gradually begin to relax. The screaming slowly subsided, to be replaced by huge, wrenching sobs.
Then the kidnapper said, ‘You shouldn’t have tried to jump me. I warned you.’
I eased my hold on Laura and turned to look at him as he backed away towards the hatch.
‘What do you expect me to do?’ I shouted. ‘Just wait for you to kill us?’
He reached the hatch and paused.
‘My daughter is terrified,’ I said. ‘Please don’t let her suffer like this.’
He put one foot down through the hatch on to the top rung of the ladder.
‘Let us go,’ Maggie said. ‘You don’t have to do this.’
He put his other foot through the hatch. Then he paused again and said, ‘It’s not that simple. If you knew why this was happening yo
u’d understand. I’m sorry, but there’s no going back.’
And then he descended the ladder and closed the hatch behind him.
29
Temple came awake at two. He checked his phone but there were no messages, which meant there had been no developments in the case. He heaved himself off the bed and went downstairs.
He made himself a bacon sandwich and sat at the kitchen table to eat it. On the radio the press conference was the lead story. That was good. At this stage they wanted as much coverage as possible.
The second item in the running order was about Saturday night’s lottery draw. The holder of the winning ticket still hadn’t claimed the prize.
He remembered that he’d bought three lottery tickets himself on Thursday. They were around somewhere so he went looking for them. He found them on the coffee table in the living room, checked the numbers on TV text and sighed when he discovered that not a single one matched those numbers in the winning combination.
Still, he thought, some lucky bastard was going to have a fabulous Christmas as soon as he or she realized they’d won.
Temple showered and shaved, then locked up the house and headed for the station. The sun had disappeared behind a thin layer of grey cloud. There was a hint of rain in the air. The streets had a grim pallor and an ugly feel. Temple sensed it. As he drove into the city he thought about Danny Cain, their chief suspect in the murder of Vince Mayo.
Cain was a desperate man and that made him dangerous and unpredictable. Temple recalled the CCTV images of his brutal attack on the two youths. It convinced him that Cain was a man who was capable of extreme violence. But what would he do next? Would he kill his family and then himself, if he hadn’t already done so?
If they were very lucky Cain would come to his senses and realize that he couldn’t run for ever. He’d give himself up without harming his wife and daughter and then seek to explain why he’d killed his friend. But Temple had a feeling that it wouldn’t happen like that. No, his instincts told him that the outcome of this case was going to be pretty messy and perhaps even bloody.
When Temple got back to the nick he was summoned straight to the boss’s office.
‘It looks like Joe Dessler told you a porky,’ Priest said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I just took a call from DC Patel. He’s seen security footage from the casino. It shows that Dessler left the premises at about seven o’clock. He didn’t return until eleven.’
‘He told me he was there all evening,’ Temple said.
‘Well he wasn’t. The manager might have thought he was, but he slipped out. And that’s not all. You’ll recall he also told you that he phoned Mayo to tell him he wouldn’t be coming over.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, as you know, there was a call to Mayo’s landline that evening from a pub in town, the Duke of Wellington. Patel’s been there too and checked it out. He’s coming back with digital footage on disc which shows Dessler in the pub using the landlord’s phone.’
Temple pondered this for a moment. Why had Dessler lied about being at the casino? Where had he spent the rest of the evening?
‘We need to look at the footage,’ he said. ‘When is Patel due back?’
‘In about twenty minutes.’
In the event Patel was back in the building half an hour later. They gathered in Priest’s office to view the footage.
‘I’ve cued up the relevant sections,’ Patel said. ‘First the disc from the casino.’
Patel ran the tape and pointed to a tall man in a dark coat who was strolling towards the exit. Just before reaching it he was stopped by someone who wanted to talk to him. And as he turned Temple caught sight of his face.
‘That’s Dessler,’ he said.
Patel fast forwarded.
‘This shows him leaving the casino and walking to his car,’ he said. ‘Note the time – four minutes past seven.’
They watched Dessler get into the car and leave the car park. Then the disc fast-forwarded again to a point where Dessler was seen returning to the casino. The time was 11.15.
Patel then put in another tape.
This one, in black-and-white, was from the pub. It was timed at 7.25 p.m.
It showed Dessler with a young woman at the bar. She was thin and plain and wore a short red coat and knee-length white skirt. Temple guessed that she was one of his working girls. They were chatting away to each other and sharing a bottle of wine.
‘Watch this,’ Patel said.
They saw the girl pull something from her handbag. It looked like a white envelope. She handed it to Dessler and he put it in his pocket.
The pair talked at the bar for another ten minutes. Then the girl left the pub.
‘I’ll print off a frame and get it circulated,’ Temple said. ‘We need to know who that woman is.’
‘No doubt one of his escorts,’ Priest said.
Temple nodded. ‘Which probably means that vice can ID her.’
On screen Dessler took out his phone but it looked as though he couldn’t get a signal. He held it up and moved along the bar, but then said something to the barman, who promptly produced a landline which he placed on the counter.
Dessler then made a call, presumably to Mayo.
The call lasted less than a minute. After Dessler replaced the receiver he rushed straight out of the pub.
‘So where the hell did he go next?’ Temple said.
‘He had plenty of time to drive to the forest and back before he turned up at the casino,’ Priest said.
Temple agreed. ‘So it means we have another suspect. Dessler is now firmly in the frame again, alongside Danny Cain.’
30
An hour later Temple was sitting behind his desk chewing on a sweet and watching the news. The hunt for Danny Cain was still the top story. That was because it had captured the public’s imagination.
Cain was a suspected murderer and he now posed a serious threat. Were his family on the run with him or had he already killed them? There was drama, jeopardy, mystery. All the elements of a story that ensured it remained prominent in the minds of the news editors and producers. A feeding frenzy was well under way, only this time hacks were scrambling for information about one of their own.
They wanted to know everything there was to know about him. His state of mind. His financial affairs. His hobbies and habits. They wanted photographs. Interviews with friends and neighbours. Quotes from the police, his parents, his secretary, his accountant.
The news reports included clips from the press conference. There were shots of Mayo’s cottage and Cain’s house. There were police outside both. A BBC News reporter did a piece to camera in front of the police station, in which he talked briefly about the link between Superintendent Priest and the murder victim. He also mentioned George Banks.
‘The police still have no clue about the whereabouts of Danny Cain,’ the reporter said. ‘And they continue to express their concern about the safety of his wife and daughter.’
It seemed to Temple that there was a veiled criticism in what the reporter said. But then perhaps it was justified. After all, they were no closer to apprehending Cain than they had been twelve hours ago.
Anyone watching the coverage would have been left in no doubt that Danny Cain was a killer. Temple still believed that to be the most likely scenario, but the revelations involving Joe Dessler and DS Jordan had prompted him to consider a full review of all the evidence. The forensic findings from the murder scene and Cain’s home; the statements from Jennifer Priest and Marsha Rowe; the notes on Mayo’s computer, the messages sent between Mayo and Mrs Cain; the interview with neighbour Bill Nadelson and the man who’d seen Cain running away from his home.
What did it all add up to? Temple wondered. Was he missing something? Something vital? A piece of the puzzle that would make sense of what was going on?
Innocent men don’t flee from the scene of a crime or leg it from the police. Yet that was exactly what
Cain did after going home and removing his bloodstained shoes. Seldom had Temple worked on a case where the evidence against an individual was so strong. Everything pointed to Danny Cain being a cold-blooded murderer. Something inside him must have snapped, sending him over the edge.
But then where did Dessler fit into it? Why had he lied about his alibi and where had he spent the evening after leaving the pub? It was a real brainteaser and the more Temple thought about it the more his head ached. To cap it all Dessler had disappeared. He wasn’t answering his phone and Brayshaw, who’d been to Dessler’s flat in Ocean Village, had been told by the security guard that Dessler had left with a suitcase earlier in the day. So was that a sign of guilt? Why else would he bugger off?
Temple could feel the pressure building inside his head. He was about to search for a painkiller in his desk drawer when Angel appeared in the open doorway of his office.
‘There’s been a development, guv,’ she said. ‘Jordan has just turned up at his house. He didn’t expect anyone to be there but we were waiting. We’re now bringing him in.’
DS Ian Jordan was brought to the station at 7 p.m. According to the officers who fetched him he had been ranting and raving all the way and had threatened to make an official complaint.
Temple spoke to Jordan’s boss in Vice, DCI John Halliwell, and explained the situation. Halliwell had already been briefed about the allegation and wanted to have a go at Jordan after Temple had finished with him.
‘If he’s been on the take then I’m going to roast the bastard,’ Halliwell said.
Interview room one was oppressively hot. Two radiators pumped heat into a space just twelve-by-twelve feet wide. There was a metal table, a wall mirror, a video camera mounted on the ceiling and four moulded plastic chairs.