And None Shall Sleep

by Priscilla Masters

  She took it off and laid it back in its box with a sigh. ‘How long will it be,’ she said, ‘before I’m back on my bike?’

  ‘Be patient,’ he urged. ‘Not long.’ He watched her for a moment and she sensed his unease. ‘You haven’t forgotten about tomorrow night, have you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  She minded. She minded very much and he knew it. But he would always ask, maybe in the hope that one day her ‘no’ would be the truth. ‘No,’ she said.

  They sat like a courting couple, talking and playing Mozart, punctuating the evening with soft, slow kisses that never quite boiled but simmered for hours, until the sound of the telephone shrilled into their peace and Colclough’s weary voice told her someone called Pugh would be occupying her office from ten a.m. in the morning. Would she be good enough to clear the desk? Early.

  Chapter Eight

  Her temper was already roused by the time Mike picked her up in the morning.

  ‘Damn this bloody plaster,’ she said furiously, slamming the door behind her.

  He laughed. ‘What difference does the plaster make?’

  ‘Well, at least I could have pedalled off some of my aggression’. She glowered at him and then felt guilty for making him the butt of her ill humour. ‘Some puke from the Regional Crime Squad is taking over my office as well as my case,’ she exploded. ‘Ten a.m. this morning. I’m to clear my desk.’

  Mike raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Colclough,’ she explained. ‘Rang last night, late.’

  ‘I see.’ Mike was silent for a moment then, Perhaps,’ he suggested, ‘you can work with this guy from the RCS.’ He ducked when a withering glance was directed his way.

  So Joanna’s first hour at work that morning was spent hurling things into cupboards with as much force as she could muster limited to one hand.

  Then she sat behind her new desk, in the main office area, muttering as ten o’clock approached.

  Her mood was not improved when ‘the puke from the Regional Crime Squad’ turned out to be a thin rod of a woman named Pugh, complete with stick-like legs, a sly face, pale eyes and a moustache. She walked in, stared around her, then homed in on Joanna. ‘Piercy,’ she said sharply. ‘I’ll have a word with you first. Bring your file with you?

  It was a stormy detective who planted herself in front of her own desk while Pugh’s pale eyes fixed on her unblinking.

  ‘This your office?’ she asked first. Joanna nodded and Pugh turned around to stare at the view from the window. ‘Doesn’t the brick wall irritate you?’ she asked.

  Joanna scowled. ‘It used to, at first. I used to think of it as a brick wall, leading nowhere ...’

  ‘And now?’ Pugh asked curiously.

  ‘I know that brick wall well,’ Joanna said quietly. ‘All the patterns, each brick, the way the rain trickles down, shadows when it’s sunny. I’ve got used to it.’

  Pugh shrugged before turning her attention to Selkirk’s murder. It seemed she wanted to know everything about his injuries and mode of death but little about his family’s lack of grief or any sort of motive. She gave Joanna a sharp, ugly look. ‘Those things don’t concern me,’ she said briskly.

  ‘It’s the modus operandi, the weapon and the environment that I need to know about. Other details merely cloud the issue.’

  Her eyes were still fixed on Joanna as she sat back and scratched her upper lip. ‘I wonder how he got Selkirk to walk along the corridor,’ she mused. All Selkirk had to do was shout out and someone would have come running’

  Joanna sat still, resentful, while Pugh rolled a pen between her fingers, frowning at the typewritten notes.

  Then she looked up. ‘Quite good, Inspector Piercy. However, I can see that you and I are looking at this case from different angles. Aren’t we?’

  ‘Are we?’

  Pugh’s bony hands were spread over the papers as though she were divining for something. ‘Photographs?’ she snapped.

  Joanna threw the forensic pictures on to the desk. ‘Here,’ she said and the woman’s nostrils twitched as she peered at them. For a while she said nothing but studied them closely up and down, growling and clearing her throat like an excited terrier.

  Then she raised her head. ‘Well, at least you’ve got some decent pictures.’ She conceded a second point. ‘Easy to see the position from which the victim was shot.’

  Joanna looked at her with hostile eyes.

  ‘Have you the PM pictures?’ Pugh asked. ‘I want to see the entrance wound.’

  When Joanna found them and pushed them across Pugh peered at one in particular before looking up. ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Was it a Beretta?’

  Joanna nodded and Pugh sat back, half closing her eyes.

  ‘It’s so funny,’ she said, muttering to herself. ‘They’re all the same. They never vary – with anything. Same bloody gun. He always picks a forest – some patch of waste ground. A cheap copy of the Mafia.’ She scrutinized the picture. ‘You can almost tell what books the bastard’s read. And every time it’s a bullet right through the back of the head as though a target had been painted on the victim’s neck.’ She glared at Joanna. ‘An unpleasant way to make a living, don’t you think, Piercy?’

  Dumbly Joanna nodded.

  Pugh dropped the pictures back on to the desk with a clatter. ‘He makes a lot of money,’ she said. ‘More than you or I do attempting to keep some semblance of law and order in this rapidly crumbling country of ours.’

  Joanna stared back at her. This was her first encounter with the Regional Crime Squad. And the power of the department was making her dizzy. She nodded, almost hypnotized by the woman.

  ‘You understand that it’s tykes like this who are the most dangerous to our civilized structure? Let men like this ...’ She jabbed her finger on the close-up of the bullet hole before letting it slide over the pictures, scattering them so the full horror of Selkirk’s missing face was exposed ... ‘Let men like this multiply,’ she said, her voice soft now, like a panther’s purr, ‘and you can say goodbye to all forms of law and order. It will be the bullet and the knife most expertly wielded that will rule. And corrupt money.’ She stopped. ‘That is why however you may hate us for invading your space,’ and she gave a grim laugh, ‘I’m afraid you need us and will continue to do so.’

  Joanna blinked but said nothing. Pugh had interpreted her lack of welcome correctly.

  ‘Now do you begin to understand why it is of paramount importance that I was hauled in?’

  Joanna nodded sheepishly. ‘Ma’am,’ she asked tentatively, ‘do I understand that you know who shot Selkirk?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Pugh’s eyes met hers quite coolly. ‘I know, all right.’ She stopped. ‘I knew within half an hour of being given the facts of the case. But I’m not interested in who hired him.’ She gave a sharp, mirthless laugh. ‘I’m interested in the executioner only.’ She sat back and closed her eyes. ‘I want the finger on the trigger. Someone who will pull a man from his hospital bed and drive him a couple of miles only to murder him is a grave danger to Society.’ Pugh stopped speaking for a moment and leafed through the sheets of paper. ‘Fifty metres away,’ she read. ‘Brain tissue was found on the trunk of a tree fifty metres away. And I think of all the forensic evidence that’s the one fact that exposes the brutality of the single small act of pulling a trigger. Someone who will do all that, just for money.’ She opened her eyes and stared at Joanna. ‘I intend to nail that man to one of those trees.’

  Joanna was silent. And now she remembered Colclough’s words. ‘Out of your league, Piercy.’ And she knew he had been right. This was outside both her experience and her comprehension.

  And silently she gave tribute, to Colclough and to Pugh. She looked curiously at the woman. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I shall have to see the ballistics study of your bullet to be absolutely sure,’ Pugh said. ‘Thank God you bothered to find it and didn’t let one of your big-footed cons
tables tread it into the earth. But I’m fairly sure that he’s an old friend of mine.’ She stopped. ‘Rather fittingly a Sicilian. We’ve met before. He’s my pigeon and I’ll get him locked away for life this time.’ She stared at Joanna. ‘I’ll concentrate on him. The local detail will be left to you, Inspector Piercy.’ Her Adam’s apple bounced in her neck as she spoke. ‘Think you can handle it?’

  Joanna nodded and gave a soft sigh of relief. The executioner was of little interest to her. A brutal act surely without intelligent motive. Done for money. It was murder done without conscience and as such of no concern to her. It was murder on a personal level that interested her. Who, out of Selkirk’s friends or acquaintances, had hated him enough to want his death? And to taunt him on the very morning of that death?

  She looked curiously at Pugh. ‘How much,’ she said, ‘how much would he have charged for his services?’

  Pugh was already leafing through the files. She hardly looked up to answer. ‘Round about eight k is the going rate. Unless he’s put his prices up.’

  ‘How are you so certain it was him?’ Now Pugh did look up, irritated, as though explaining to a child why B followed A.

  ‘Well, there’s the evidence of the gun,’ she said, ‘as well as the bullet markings. Then there’s his modus operandi.’ She stopped. ‘I’ve already explained all that, the place of execution, the knotting of the wrists. This man’s – Gallini’s his name – his family were all fishing folk from the southern tip of Sicily. He’s a proficient knotter.’ She picked up another of the reports. ‘Always best-quality nylon sailing twine. He doesn’t skimp. Then there’s another curious habit he has, almost a superstition. He never changes his night,’ she said. ‘Surely you must have thought it strange, abducting someone from a hospital bed when another night the man would be a much easier target.’ She gave a twisted smile. ‘He is also a very mean man. And times are hard, even for men of his profession. If Selkirk had died of natural cases he would have lost 8k. Money Gallini could ill afford to do without with so many of his family dependent on his earnings. He couldn’t afford to wait. The man was ill. Gallini’s no doctor, but even with his peanut for a brain he may have realized his victim might die before he could glean his earnings from him. And once he’s decided to hit on a Monday or a Tuesday nothing will deter him. His family all pray for his safety on that particular night, you see.’ She paused. ‘Most people would have waited until Selkirk was home again. But Gallini was prepared to take chances, hit him in the hospital.’ Her face was grim. ‘He’ll have spent half the day casing the joint, unseen by anyone.’

  ‘But ...’ Joanna objected.

  ‘Unseen,’ Pugh said positively. ‘Who looks at a plumber, a porter, a doctor wearing a convincing identity card – or a grieving relative? He’s a professional. He’ll have been all these. No one will have noticed him.’ She picked up the photograph of the blood-stained door. ‘Do you know what sort of fingerprint this is?’

  It was a grainy, regular surface. ‘A glove?’ Joanna ventured.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘A rubber glove.’

  ‘A bloody surgeon’s glove,’ Pugh said triumphantly. ‘And that is Gallini all over. In a hospital he uses a surgeon’s glove.’

  A thought was beginning to tempt Joanna. ‘Could that have been the reason Selkirk walked with Gallini along the corridor without raising the alarm?’

  Pugh sat quite still for a moment, then nodded. ‘It’s possible,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m not totally convinced. Something not quite right here. A weak spot in the planning.’ And she shook her head. ‘Gallini doesn’t like weak spots, but it might have been like that.’ She stopped. ‘However, the final clincher and the thing that’ll hang him, metaphorically speaking,’ she added hastily, ‘is the gun!

  She leafed through the papers. ‘Where is the sodding ballistics report?’

  ‘It takes at least five days,’ Joanna said coldly.

  ‘We’ll see about that.’ Pugh picked up the phone and barked some orders down it. Then she looked up. ‘Beretta,’ she said. “Typical bloody Italian. Superstitious as hell. Clever enough to use a surgeon’s glove in a hospital and stupid enough to use the same gun, every bloody time.’

  Beside her Joanna felt a beginner. ‘And he always shoots his victim in the same place,’ Pugh muttered. ‘Same range. He pushes the gun in so far you actually get a slightly smaller bore because he’s puckered the skin. A moment’s discomfort. Instant death. Back of the brain.’

  She picked up Matthew’s PM report. ‘Nice thorough job your pathologist does. Knows what he’s about, doesn’t he?’ Joanna nodded and felt unbelievably proud. Matthew was – besides all other things – also a professional.

  But for now she had her own concerns. ‘So is it all right,’ she said awkwardly, ‘if I continue with my own investigations?’

  Pugh hardly glanced up. ‘Do what you like,’ she said. ‘But don’t even think of obstructing me. Start with a man’s nearest and dearest before you move to his trusted business partners and beneficiaries from his will. And then take a look at his criminal history before looking anywhere else. OK?’ Her face twisted again into an excuse for a smile. ‘I gather Selkirk and his unsavoury partner were being investigated by the Fraud Squad.’ She held up her hand. ‘No more details yet.’

  At last there was something Joanna knew more about. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Fraudulent claims for legal aid.’

  Pugh looked unimpressed. ‘Oh, that old game?’

  There was one thing still puzzling Joanna. ‘And the letter?’

  Pugh frowned. ‘That’s totally out of character. All the rest I can picture Gallini’s hand behind. But not that.’ She stared at Joanna. ‘That,’ she said, ‘was the hand that signed the cheque.’

  Joanna made the sign of the triumphant fist as she approached Mike’s desk. ‘We can carry on,’ she said softy, her eyes trained on the closed door. ‘She’s only interested in the killer. Not the person who paid the bill. So, I suggest we take a little drive. Visit Wilde.’

  Mike rattled the car keys and grinned.

  Two minutes later the door flew open. ‘I want to see the stiff.’

  They both groaned.

  ‘You ... Korpanski. You can drive me.’

  On her way out Pugh tossed another line over her shoulder. ‘And you, Piercy. I want the door.’

  Joanna stared. ‘But it’s a hospital fire door,’ she said. ‘We got the prints. All the prints. All photographed.’

  ‘You’ve cordoned them off?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I want the bloody door,’ Pugh said and left the station with Mike, leaving Joanna fuming.

  After a fruitless morning struggling with the SOC officers taking the door off its hinges, Joanna called on Colclough.

  ‘I want Mike back,’ she said. ‘I need him to drive me around. I can’t do anything without him. I’m stuck, sir, with this plaster on my arm.’ It was itching unbearably.

  He was unsympathetic. ‘Don’t hassle me, Piercy,’ he groaned.

  ‘I must have him, sir, if I’m going to proceed with the case.’

  ‘But Pugh ...’

  ‘I’ve got my own investigations,’ she said, ‘with Pugh’s blessing.’

  ‘All right,’ he grunted. ‘You can have him back in the morning.’

  ‘But this afternoon ...’

  ‘Carry on your investigations here,’ he said, ‘then go home. You can have Korpanski back tomorrow.’

  So Joanna sat at the desk, toying one-handed with a pencil, her mind shuffling through the case. Maybe she should look deeper into this business with the Fraud Squad. There might be some clue there. And then there was that mention of an old firearms case, eight to ten years ago. Could there be a connection? She stared into space. A quick check could soon be run. But the facts didn’t fit. The gunner who had polished Selkirk off had been hired. Someone hadn’t wanted to get their hands dirty but had preferred to part with a great deal of money. What sort of a person? Someon
e squeamish? Or someone with such a good reason for wanting Selkirk dead they had not dared come under the umbrella of suspicion? Someone to whom eight thousand pounds had not seemed a very great deal of money.

  Her mind was fully engaged now, concentrating on this one fact. She wanted to know more about the dead man.

  She called Dawn Critchlow across. ‘I want you to run a search on Selkirk,’ she said. ‘See if you can come up with anything’

  The WPC looked at her curiously. ‘What sort of thing did you have in mind?’

  ‘Anything,’ Joanna said. ‘Absolutely anything. If he broke wind in court I want to know about it. And while you’re at it, Dawn, run a check on firearms cases he handled eight to ' ten years ago.’

  While Dawn was gone she pondered on the Fraud Squad’s investigation. She’d already studied the preliminary report. The racket had been worth hundreds of thousands of pounds through multiple claims, all costing the country through the Legal Aid system. Selkirk and Wilde had merrily robbed the nation for their own profits. She flicked through the file. Divorces and defences had formed the bulk of the claims. Practically every case they had handled was now under scrutiny. It was a thick file and it went back more than five years.

  But why had Selkirk needed all that money? He had a home, a wife, cars, no dependants. His was a well-paid job yielding a steady income. Why had he needed so much more? Was it simple greed? Had the upright pillar of society a dark side to him – a cocaine habit? Joanna rejected that idea and toyed with another. Perhaps the money had been a side product and the real thrill had been nothing more than beating the very system that had financed his career.

  She half closed her eyes and conjured up the photograph of Jonathan Selkirk. She pictured his direct gaze, the cynical, twisted smile, small, calculating eyes, toothbrush moustache. It had been a dry, humourless face with something conceited and condescending in it. Such a man would derive pleasure from cheating the system. And if that was the case, what about his partner? What had Rufus Wilde gleaned from the cheats and deals? Was his motive the pleasure of deception too, or greed?