by Liz Mistry
Pulling up at the kerb, Gus noticed Weston’s car was in the drive. He jumped out and elbowed his way through the crowding press.
‘Can you comment on the photos revealed in the Chronicle this morning, Detective?’ ‘Would you say that makes Graeme Weston prime suspect in the Razaul Ul Haq murder?’
‘Could Graeme Weston be the Tattoo Killer?’
‘Do you think you’ll find Lewis Gore alive?’
The last question threw him. He’d hoped Gore’s name would escape the attention of the press until he’d been found. The words ‘dead or alive’ echoed in his brain, taunting him. Bloody parasites! Dipping his head, Gus allowed his dreads to obscure his face. No point in giving them easy access to his expression. They’d give him enough bad press anyway.
With Alice following close on his heels, he strode to the door in silence. Then, turning to face them, he said, pointing to the front garden, ‘Private property. One step through that gate, and I’ll have you. Clear?’ He caught the eye of a uniformed officer who was trying to herd the journalists backwards and nodded. The officer grinned and nodded back, before turning with renewed effort and forcing the mob further up the street.
Gus pressed the doorbell and waited. His worried feeling intensified when there was no response. ‘Weston should be in.’
He rang the bell again, bracing himself for the tinny rendition of ‘Rule, Britannia!’ to play out as they waited. Still no response. Unwilling to initiate an encore, he rapped his knuckles on the glass door. Now that the press had been herded away and the final tones of Weston’s signature tune had faded, he could hear sounds from inside the house … the TV or perhaps the radio. Still, nothing to indicate someone was making their way to the door.
The thoughts he’d been trying to subdue since he first saw the article, returned with a vengeance. What exactly would a man like Weston be driven to, after seeing the disgusting photo of his wife in flagrante for all the world to see? He was already under immense pressure with his political campaign and the after-effects of the bottle-bomb the previous day. What would it take to push him over the edge?
A quick glance at Alice showed his own worries reflected in her face. ‘Try his phone and then Christine’s again, will you?’ he said, before lifting his fist to hammer again. He had just connected with the glass, when he felt an elbow in his ribs. Glancing at Alice, assuming she’d got a reply, he saw her nod towards the gate. Spinning round, he saw a red-faced Michael Hogg lumbering up the path, his jacket flying open.
One hand raised in a near Nazi salute, he yelled, ‘Oi, stop that!’ at the top of his voice.
Gus stared the other man down as he watched him approach. For someone who’d supposedly been at work fitting a boiler fifteen minutes ago, Michael Hogg was remarkably well-dressed in a suit and shirt. As the man drew close, he stretched his neck towards Gus, mouth open in a sneer. ‘What do you think you’re doing? That’s harassment, that is.’
Having endured an antagonistic phone conversation with both Hogg and his wife not an hour earlier, Gus was in no mood to pander to the man’s attitude. He was doing his job, and he was damned if a smarmy little upstart like Hogg would stop him from doing so. Gus leaned closer and sniffed the air in an exaggerated manner. ‘Always slather yourself in eau de toilet for work, do you? And dress like that to fit boilers?’
Alice sniffed and cocked her head to one side. Using an exaggerated phonetic enunciation, she said, ‘I think it’s Pour Homme, no less.’
Grinning at the obvious mispronunciation, Gus nodded and raised an eyebrow. ‘Look, I don’t care what you’re wearing … or for that matter, who you’re wearing it for. Just get Weston to open the damn door. We need to speak to him.’
As if he’d heard Gus, the door opened, and Graeme Weston stood there, a glass of amber coloured liquid in his hand. From the pavement, cameras flashed, and the journos yelled a series of questions.
‘Mr Weston, did you know of your wife’s affair with murder victim Razaul Ul Haq?’
‘Where does your wife’s affair with Bangladeshi murder victim Razaul Ul Haq leave your political aspirations, Mr Weston?
‘How can the people of Bradford take Albion First seriously, after their leader’s wife is shown in compromising photos with one of the Tattoo Killer’s victims?’
‘Would you refute claims that you are now the police’s number one suspect in the Tattoo Killer investigation?’
Hogg stepped in front of Weston, using his bulk to shield him from the barrage of questions. Side-stepping both men, Gus pushed the door wider and gestured for Weston to retreat. As Weston turned and walked back indoors, Gus, Alice and Hogg followed him inside.
With the door shut behind them, Hogg spun around and getting right into Gus’ face, began mouthing off. ‘You’ve forced your way into Mr Weston’s property. You’ll be hearing from our solicitors. This is unacceptable.’
Ignoring Michael Hogg’s blustering threats, Gus stepped back. ‘Thanks for inviting us in, Mr Weston.’
‘What!’ Michael Hogg yelled. ‘You weren’t invited! You pushed your way in against Graeme’s wishes.’
Lowering his voice, Gus glared at Hogg. ‘What are you on about? You really think suing us is top of your list of priorities? In case you haven’t noticed, the only parliamentary candidate for Albion First, an openly racist organisation with some members who have been arrested for hate crimes, has just had a photo of his wife shagging an Asian murder victim plastered all over the newspapers, and you want to sue the police?’ Gus pushed past him, saying, ‘Pulease!’
During Gus’ interlude with Hogg, Graeme Weston had wandered over to the drinks cabinet. After refilling his glass with shaking hands from a half-empty bottle of Glenfiddich thirty-year-old malt, Weston turned around, sloshing half the liquid onto the carpet.
Gus’ eyes narrowed as he noticed bloody marks across Weston’s knuckles. Then, as his eyes followed the direction of the whisky droplets falling towards the rug, he noticed the blood stain near the table. A quick glance at Alice told him she, too, had noticed the stain. Drowning out Hogg’s whingeing tones, Gus stepped forward and removed the glass from Weston’s hands. ‘Where are your wife and son, Mr Weston?’
Weston blinked as if unsure of the question. Gus repeated it, his words slower in an attempt to penetrate the other man’s drunken fugue.
‘Where exactly are your wife and son, Mr Weston?’
Graeme Weston sank onto the sofa, head bowed, with his arms resting on his knees. He began to laugh, the sound getting louder and louder by degrees. Gus moved forward, gripped his shoulders and shook him. Not hard; just enough to bring him back to reality. Blank eyes gazed up at Gus, and then, releasing an alcoholic fumed breath, he ran his injured hand over his eyes and then down past his mouth.
Gus’ concern for the welfare of Christine Weston and their son Jacob intensified. It was clear Weston had punched someone. It was also clear someone had bled substantially on to the floor. He needed to get Weston to respond. He knelt beside him, infringing on the other man’s personal space, forcing him to return his gaze. ‘You need to start talking, right fucking now.’
Towering over Gus, Hogg, hands on hips, glowered. ‘You can’t talk to him like that.’
Without turning his head, Gus said, ‘Watch me! Now, you fuck off and let me do my job.’
Alice moved forward and laid her hand on Hogg’s arm. ‘Come on, Mr Hogg. You need to leave now. This is a possible crime scene, and you can’t be here.’
‘Crime scene? Fucking crime scene? If the likes of your fucking nigger boss would do his job right, this wouldn’t have happened. It’s that little bastard Hopkins you should be talking to, not upstanding citizens like Graeme.’
Not of a mind to employ any more placatory techniques, Gus spoke, his anger reverberating in every word. ‘Get that slimy little bastard out of here, Al. We need to talk to Weston without his puppet master.’
Weston began to laugh again. Three sets of eyes turned to him. With no warning, h
e leaned forward and vomited all over Gus’ shoes. For a moment, Gus could only stare in disbelief, and then, the stink of regurgitated alcohol hit him. He jumped to his feet trying to put distance between himself and the smell. Realising it wouldn’t happen, he swallowed back the bile that rose in his own throat. Then, his instincts kicked in, and he began to employ the technique he normally reserved for the morgue; breathing in shallow pants through his mouth. Lips curling, he glowered at the drunk man. The urge to punch him in the face had never been stronger.
Weston, seemingly sobered after his purge, grinned and winked. ‘No fucking comment, black boy.’
Nostrils flaring, Gus abruptly turned on his heel. ‘Get the SOCOs in, Al. They need to rip this place apart … oh, and arrest this joker for obstruction.’
Stepping through the door, Gus welcomed the cool air on his cheeks. He knew he’d lost it inside, but he didn’t really care. He was too worried about what might have happened to Christine Weston. Scowling at the journalists who moulded themselves around the gate, the urge to raise a finger in a swivel-on-it motion was strong, however, he refrained. Instead, muttering under his breath, he ignored them and stalked over to the tap attached to the side wall. Balancing on one foot, he slipped the opposite shoe off. He held his breath against the stink and ran freezing cold water over the shoe to dislodge the puke, before repeating the action with his second shoe.
Alice appeared at his shoulder and pushed a packet of wet wipes into his hand. ‘Wipe it with this now. At least it’ll get rid of some of the smell.’
Some of the tension left Gus’ shoulders, as leaning against the wall, he took the wipe and rubbed it over his shoe. He was still too tense to speak. He hoped to hell Christine and her son were ok.
Alice sniffed. ‘I only gave you that because I couldn’t stand you stinking out my car. By the way, a preliminary search of the house discovered nothing untoward.’
Relief that neither Christine Weston nor her son were lying dead in a corner made Gus laugh. ‘That’s a relief.’ Then, handing the pack of wet wipes back, he winked at her. ‘Thought you were going soft, Al.’
Journalists’ voices, raised in a barrage of questions, alerted them to the fact Graeme Weston was being escorted to a squad car. Gus watched as the reporters fought for access to the First Albion leader. Lips tightening, he heard one of them say, ‘Care to comment on the graze mark on your knuckles, Mr Weston?’ Observant bastards! Well, at least now he knew what the headlines would be.
Putting his sodden shoes back on, he and Alice walked through the gap left by the journalists who had followed Weston from the house.
Alice held her hand out palm upwards. ‘Bloody rain’s started again.’ Speeding up to avoid the downpour, they dodged into her Mini without being spotted. As they drove off towards The Fort, Gus’ phone rang. He listened and then said, ‘Change of direction, Al. Glen Road, Shipley Glen. They’ve found Lewis Gore!’
Chapter 64
15:30 Shipley Glen
Pelting rain pounded against the windscreen as Alice put her foot down and drove along Harrogate Road towards Shipley Glen. Mesmerised by the water pouring down the window, Gus used the twenty-minute drive to gather his thoughts.
Graeme Weston was in custody, and his wife Christine was missing after being revealed publicly to have had a sexual relationship with their third victim. Weston’s alibis for all three of the previous victims had checked out, although there was a possibility one of his racist cronies had worked under his direction. Gus didn’t think that added up. Weston seemed too smooth, too organised, too focussed to have risked his carefully planned political career by something as wild as abducting and tattooing black men. That just didn’t make sense.
Gus was under no illusion, though. He knew that the sort of rhetoric espoused by West and his followers could contribute to the sort of hate crimes they’d witnessed. Whoever was targeting these black and Asian men didn’t seem likely to stop anytime soon.
What he couldn’t get his head around was Christine Weston. What on earth had prompted her to have an affair, never mind to choose an Asian as her suitor? It seemed totally and absolutely mad. Why would she risk her cushy life with her openly racist, wannabe politician husband for a bit of slap and tickle with Razaul Ul Haq? Weston seemed controlling, so Christine seemed to be playing with fire there. And where was the boy, Jacob? When they’d arrested Weston, Alice had searched the house very quickly, and there was no sign of him or his mother. Still, Weston refused to say anything. Arrogant sod!
Gus didn’t believe in coincidence, and everything seemed to be linking up. He now had a definite link between Weston and/or Albion First and his third victim. The bombing at City Park demonstrated Albion First were not averse to committing violent racist acts, despite their so-called desire to become a legitimate political party. However, Gus, having been on the receiving end of a fair amount of racism growing up, knew there was a huge difference between random racist attacks and the targeted abduction and torture of non-whites.
He wondered if, although he had no concrete evidence to support this, the Tattoo Killer was a part of Albion First rather than a lone vigilante psychopath. It seemed too co-incidental to ignore that the meteoric rise of Albion First’s public profile and the start of these killings came at the same time. He couldn’t put all his eggs in the one basket, though. Albion First was despicable; on the other hand, this killer may have nothing to do with them. The challenge for Gus’ team was to narrow it down.
On the plus side, the City Park investigation team had arrested the thug responsible for the bomb. They were sure he would eventually be persuaded to give up the brains behind the attack, because in one officer’s words, ‘that little fucker is a few currants short of a fat rascal.’ Gus stomach rumbled at the thought. He’d not eaten for a while, and he could demolish a fat rascal as quickly as Compo right now.
Having driven through Idle and Shipley, the skies darkening by the minute, they neared their destination. Through the rain, Gus could just about distinguish the distorted blue lights of police vehicles, as Alice indicated to turn onto Glen Road, which ran adjacent to the area of Glen where Lewis Gore had been found. Huge slabs, like giant stepping stones, punctuated the bracken covered gorge. Puddles of mucky water, like trenches made by massive feet, made the ground marshy. Winter had scared away all hint of greenery, leaving defeated brown grass struggling to stand to attention against the wind and rain. As they pulled in, an ambulance, lights flashing, siren shrieking, screeched off in the opposite direction.
‘Shit,’ said Alice, mirroring Gus’ thoughts. ‘Hope no-one’s hurt. The weather will have made the ground treacherous.’
Grabbing the old fisherman’s jacket he’d tossed onto the backseat earlier, Gus shrugged into it, breathing in its waxiness as he flipped the hood up over his head.
‘Wellies?’ asked Alice.
Gus snorted. ‘No point in bothering for me. My shoe’s squelching after that pillock threw up all over them … And my trousers, thanks to your clumsiness, are shredded too.’
Failing to hide her smirk, Alice put her coat on and toddled round to the boot from which she extracted a pair of black wellies with purple flowers that matched those adorning the bonnet and roof of her Mini. They were far too cumbersome for her delicate frame. Gripping Gus’ arm, she tossed her leather boots into the car, one at a time, replacing them with the wellies. All the while, Gus peered over her head at the scene on the edge of the Glen. The weather made it difficult to see anything, but the white-suited figures shone through the dimness. Gus could see they were focussed on a spot about fifty metres or so off the main road.
As Alice released Gus, he strode off, leaving her to struggle after him as best she could. One of the uniformed officers handed him a torch and a protective suit. With practised ease, he got into it, donning booties and gloves too. As he neared the focus of the attention, he saw they’d erected a tent. Looking towards Sid for permission, he swept the canvas flap open and entered.
The SOCOs had erected a light, so Gus, standing on the raised platform at the entrance, could see the entire area. He frowned and turned to Sid who stood just behind him. ‘Where’s –’
‘The victim?’ asked Sid, his chest puffing out as he rolled back and forth on the balls of his feet. ‘He’s gone.’
Gus bit his lip, and a scowl furrowed his brow. This was unacceptable. The body should have been kept in situ for him to view.
Sid grinned. ‘Nobody’s told you, have they?’
Gus’ frown deepened. ‘Told me what?’
‘He was alive. They worked on him here, got him stabilised, and they’ve just taken him off to BRI. Didn’t you see the ambulance?’
‘He’s alive?’ Gus could hardly believe it. All this time, he’d been preparing himself for another body, yet, somehow, against all odds, Lewis Gore had held on. Which, of course, raised the question, why had he been allowed to live? What had gone wrong? As soon as he was finished here, Gus would contact Professor Carlton to see what he thought.
Sid grimaced, ‘Yeah, just about. Groin’s a mess, and his heart’s fucked up. The paramedics don’t know how the hell he kept going. Hypothermia. His heart stopped twice whilst they were here, but they brought him back. It’s touch-and-go whether he’ll make it or not.’
Sid nodded towards a large, thickset man. Without a jacket, his shirt and trousers were sodden. He watched the SOCOs working, seemingly oblivious to the rain dripping from his flattened hair onto his face. ‘That’s Gore’s boss,’ said Sid. ‘You’ll want to speak to him, no doubt. First, let me tell you what we’ve got.’