‘So how come you know...’
‘Why don’t I give you a lift home, I know where you live and it’ll give us the chance to talk.’
‘Get fucked.’
The smile vanished. ‘Please don’t use profanities, Mr Green, I don’t like it.’
Craig laughed, the sound ripped away by the wind. ‘I don’t give a shit about what you fucking like or don’t like. Now fuck off before I lose my temper,’ he turned back to the car.
Plymouth moved forward, placed the flat of his hand onto the back of Greens neck and slammed down, the head shot forward and bounced off the roof of the car. Craig hit the tarmac with a thud. Two minutes later Plymouth pulled off the car park, with Green curled up in the boot, dead to the world.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Lasser looked at the artwork in the window, colourful images of dragons and mermaids along with a mesmerising amount of tribal tattoos. He peered at the window above, sickly light seeped through a pair of grimy net curtains; rain drizzled onto his upturned face. Problem was there didn’t seem to be a bell to ring or a door to knock on. A narrow alley ran between the tattooists and a Chinese takeaway, so he headed along the passageway into a small courtyard, the smell of discarded food from the bins was overpowering. The rear door of the takeaway stood open, steam billowed out into the damp evening air. He could hear the metallic clattering of pots and pans, someone shouted in Chinese and a child began to cry.
A metal fire escape ran up to the flat above, so he began to climb. Reaching the top, Lasser stood on the small platform and looked out at the warren of narrow backstreets and alleyways lined with assorted wheelie bins. With a sigh, he rapped his knuckles on the door.
Suzi stopped in her tracks; she’d been gathering clothes and stuffing them into a rucksack when the knock came. She checked her watch, it was only six o’clock, then again, Barry could send a punter around anytime, he didn’t care what time of day it was. When the knock came again, she held her breath and caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, her mousy hair hung lank and a streak of darkened roots ran down the centre. Her skin appeared pale and washed out as if she hadn’t seen the sun in months and the T-shirt that used to cling to her breasts now hung shapeless from her narrow shoulders.
The image was that of a stranger, as if someone had sneaked into her skin and evicted the old Suzi, replacing her with a washed out druggie who sold her body for the next fix.
This time the knock on the door was louder, but she didn’t even hear it, her mind was attempting to reconcile the person that stared back at her. She tried to focus but these last few months she'd found this happening more often. In Pound Stretcher last week, or was it the week before, she had suddenly started to cry, people had looked towards her and then moved away as if crying was somehow contagious.
The knock came again and she moved quietly to the door and peered through the spy hole. When she saw the face of the man standing on top of the fire escape, she snapped her head back. She recognised him from the burger van; he had been the one who had chased her until she had slipped down the narrow alleyway. She eased her eye back to the glass, he had a cigarette in his mouth and she watched as the flame from a lighter illuminated his features. How had he found out where she lived, surely he couldn’t have tracked her down just to return the money? She chewed at her bottom lip, he seemed to look straight at the door as if he knew she was lurking on the other side, the feeling was so strong that she took a backward step.
Perhaps he was a punter, maybe he knew Barry, her hand hovered over the latch unsure what to do. She stepped back to the door and was surprised to see him walking down the steps. After a few seconds, he disappeared from view and she dashed to the single bed under the window and opened a narrow crack in the curtains. Twenty seconds later, he emerged onto the pavement walking away from the shop, when he suddenly snapped his head around and peered up at the window she felt her heart judder. He seemed to smile and then carried on walking, she watched as he climbed into a car and drove away down the hill.
Pushing herself from the bed, she went to the wardrobe and grabbed the only thick coat she owned. Rummaging at the bottom, she pulled out a scarf and a woolly hat. Zipping up the rucksack, Suzi dipped her hand into a side pocket and pulled out the wad of money. Earlier, she had sat on the bed and counted the cash, her palms clammy with sweat as she realised there was just short of seven thousand pounds.
The realisation came quickly; staying in this flat in this town was no longer an option she had to get away. If Barry came back, he would somehow know from the look on her face that she had lied to him, he would search the room and when he found the money he would take the lot and then beat her senseless for having the nerve to lie to him. The problem was she didn’t know where to go, she had no parents and friends were hard to come by when you'd been dragged up by the system, one foster home to the next, interspersed with long spells in children’s homes. She felt in the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a small plastic bag, sliding a tablet free she placed it under her tongue. Taking one last look around the scruffy bedsit, Suzi dragged the bag onto her shoulder and left.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Cathy whisked the eggs in the bowl before tipping the mixture into the frying pan. Lasser sipped his coffee and watched as she grated some cheese onto the omelette. She turned down the gas and smiled at him.
‘So how was your day, darling?’
It had become something of an ‘in joke’ like some throw back from a seventies sitcom.
‘Same shit, different day,’ he gave the expected reply, placed the cup on the table and moved up behind her, sliding his hands around her waist, he nibbled her ear lobe.
Twisting, she kissed the end of his nose. ‘So, what did you say the girl’s name was?’
‘Suzi Beddows, I checked with social services and apparently she comes from a shitty background, in and out of several kids homes until she was sixteen, no parents to speak of, and then she had the good fortune to meet Barry Collins.’
‘And he put her on the game?’
‘It’s what he does; the man is a complete shit.’
‘And you think she was in the flat when you called round?’
Lasser shrugged. ‘Well the light was on and I thought I saw the curtains twitch, but who knows?’
‘And what about Collins, are you going to bring him in?’
‘Easier said than done, I mean, he moves around a lot, but I’ve told the lads to keep their eyes peeled, so you never know we might get lucky.’
Cathy slid the spatula under the omelette and flipped it over. ‘And what about the man you chased through the churchyard?’
‘Jesus, Cathy, despite rumours, I’m not Superman, anyway, that’s Rimmer’s job.’
She poked her tongue out at him. ‘Grab the plates will you, this is ready.’
He reached into a cupboard and slid a couple free.
‘I mean, until I actually see the girl I can’t say for sure that she’s the one who nicked the cash.’
‘But I thought Collins’ girlfriend put you onto her?’
‘She did.’
She slid the food onto the plate and slapped his hand as he tried to grab a forkful. ‘You can wait until I’ve done mine.’
‘Come on, I’m starving.’
On the worktop, Lasser’s phone began to vibrate, dancing its way towards the edge. He dashed across the room and grabbed it before it fell lemming style to the floor.
‘Hello.’
Cathy poured the eggs into the pan, the mixture sizzling as it hit the heat. Her day had consisted of going to the numerous charity shops around Hindley, listening patiently as elderly ladies plied her with cups of tea and told her how this would never have happened in their day. How you could leave your front door open and no one would dream of sneaking in and robbing you blind.
‘Right I’m on my way.’
She looked up as he slid the phone into his pocket and grabbed his coat from the back of the chair.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘You know I was telling you about Weisman the pawnbroker?’
‘Mm,’ she popped a piece of cheese into her mouth.
‘Well, his wife came home from a visiting relatives and found him bludgeoned to death in the conservatory.’
She turned off the cooker. ‘Sounds like a game of Cluedo. Do you want me to come with you?'
‘Bloody hell, Cathy, you only came off duty an hour ago.’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t mind.’
‘No, you stay here and try and get some rest, you’re back on at six in the morning.’
Cathy flicked at him with the tea towel, ‘Happy hunting.’
Surprisingly the rain had stopped, replaced by fat snowflakes that fell silently from a mottled sky the colour of congealed rice pudding. Lasser stood on the doorstep and looked out into the street. A man walked past the end of his drive dragging a black Labrador behind him. The dog looked miserable as if suddenly plucked from the front of a roaring fire and hauled out into the cold winter’s night.
Lasser bleeped the car open and clambered inside shivering; he started the engine before turning the heater to full blast, his breath billowed out fogging the windscreen. Punching the postcode into the sat-nav, he pulled out his cigarettes while he waited for the address to pop up. Twenty seconds later, he pulled away and headed off the estate.
The flakes fluttered in the headlights beam, a couple of kids were swiping the snow from garden walls and throwing snowballs at passing cars. At the Tesco roundabout, he turned right and headed out of town. Large houses were dotted along the side of the road hidden behind tall brick walls and well-established gardens, a million miles from the Lancaster Road estate and its metal box houses. In front, he could see a ghost like set of tyre tracks, a council wagon shot past on the opposite side of the road, tiny chunks of salt clattered down the side of the car sounding like small-arms fire.
At the roundabout, the Boars Head pub was throwing out warm light from its mullioned windows, looking like a picture on the front of a Christmas card. He turned right and began to ease his way down the steep hill. The snowflakes suddenly swirled as the wind changed direction, he feathered the brake as he snaked his way around a series of winding bends.
Lasser tried to think back to his conversation with the pawnbroker, the man had been nervous, but then again everyone was nervous when being questioned by a police officer. In a slightly metallic voice, the sat-nav sweetie told him to take the next turning on the left. The tree-lined avenue was clogged with police cars, the swirling blues sweeping over the gardens and splashing across the front of the detached houses as neighbours stood on the pavements gossiping about the terrible events.
Spotting a gap, he pulled over; the front wheels mounted the curb and then dropped into the gutter as he straightened the car. When he opened the door all the heat vanished replaced by the freezing wind. Shivering, he popped open the glove compartment and pulled out a woolly hat. A couple of uniforms stood guard at the entrance to the driveway, he nodded to them as he made his way toward the front door.
‘Round the back, boss,’ Carl from the SOCO team appeared from the side of the house, kitted out in the full regalia, paper boiler suit and blue plastic sheaths covering his shoes.
‘Evening, Carl. It’s bloody freezing out here.’
‘It’s nice and warm in the conservatory if you have a strong stomach.’
‘That bad?’
Carl pulled the round dome shaped mask from his mouth and slipped it onto his head, it looked as if he were sporting a tit for a hat. ‘It looks as if whoever did it had a deep dislike for Mr Weisman.’
‘Who else is here?’
‘Well, Doc Molder’s already inside looking at the body and Bannister’s questioning the wife.’
‘Any obvious clues?’
‘Not that I can see, then again this weather isn’t helping,’ he looked up at the sky, opened his mouth and caught a snowflake on his tongue.
‘Right, I’d better show my face,’ Lasser made his way down the side of the house and stepped into the back garden. The conservatory brightly lit, spewed light onto a lawn that was rapidly disappearing under a cover of snow. Doc Molder was standing in the middle of the glass room; he glanced at him and gave a quirky grin.
Weisman had looked big in the shop, now he appeared to cover most of the floor space of the conservatory, he was sprawled on his back his arms outstretched crucifixion style. Blood seemed to coat just about everything, bright crimson splashes on the windows, the television screen was spattered red and a huge pool of blood spread out beneath the remains of Weisman’s head, like a tin of spilled paint.
‘It’s a nasty business, Sergeant.’
Lasser stepped into the room, careful not to stand in any of the blood.
‘Any idea when it happened?’
Molder grimaced. ‘Well, according to his wife, she left at four and arrived back home at seven so we have a two three window.’
All the damage had been concentrated on the head; the pawnbroker’s face had been obliterated. Lasser could see white slivers of bone shining out through the gore.
The remains of a wooden table trapped beneath the bulk of the pawnbroker, looked like matchwood, one of the legs lay by his side, a thick chunk of wood slick with blood.
‘Is that the murder weapon, Doc?’
‘Could be.’
Lasser threw him a sideways glance that spoke volumes. It was always the same, Molder was the type of expert who would commit to nothing until he had picked over the evidence in his laboratory of death, and even then, it was with a grudging reluctance.
‘Well, it’s coated with blood and lying at the side of the body, does that seem relevant to you?’
‘No comment, Sergeant Lasser, and don’t look at me like that, you know how this works. I’ll take all the evidence back to the lab and run specific tests, then and only then do I offer an explanation.’
Lasser pushed the woolly hat back on his head, even though the door was open it still felt feverishly hot in the small glass room. Could it be the corpse, the last of the heat draining away from the bloated mass of dead tissue? He shivered at the notion and headed for the kitchen, a faint smell of casserole lingered in the air. The room was large and looked as if it hadn't been decorated since the mid-seventies, walls lined with pale yellow tiles the floor covered with wood effect linoleum. It looked like the kitchen of an asylum. Crossing the room, he entered a gloomy hallway, voices drifted out from a room on the left.
DCI Bannister glanced at him as he entered and then turned his attention back to the woman on the sofa. It was like going back in time to an era when woodchip wallpaper was the state of the art wall covering. A standard lamp stood in the corner of the room complete with frilly tassels hanging off the shade. The sofa was faux leather, shiny plastic that would fool no one.
WPC Hannah Morgan sat by her side, a comforting hand resting on the woman’s shoulder.
‘And you’re sure your husband was alone when you left?’ Bannister asked.
She looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes; her plump face framed by curly brown hair flecked with grey.
‘I wanted him to come to his mother’s with me,’ she hiccupped, a tear slid free. ‘But he said he had a migraine and wanted to stay at home.’
‘He was unwell?’
Lasser didn’t see the parrot in the cage positioned behind the door, when it began to squawk he spun around his heart hammering. The blue-green bird flapped its wings showering the carpet with birdseed, shit and feathers.
When he turned around Bannister glared at him.
Lasser smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry about that.’
Hannah lifted a hand to her face to hide a smile; Weisman’s wife looked as if she hadn’t even heard the racket.
Bannister cleared his throat. ‘So your husband suffered from migraines?’
‘Only when it suited him,’ she replied with a sniff.
‘I’m sorry I
don’t follow?’
She folded her hands and placed them in her lap. ‘My husband was a lazy man, Inspector; he always looked for the easiest option in life.’
‘Can you give me an example?’ Bannister asked.
She snorted. ‘I can give you plenty, he knows we always go to his mother’s on a Sunday, but he said he felt ill...’
‘And you didn’t believe him?’ Lasser asked.
She blinked as if shocked by the question. ‘Well it wasn’t the first time he’d made some lame excuse, he was always doing it. I mean, look at the state of this house, I was always trying to get him to decorate, but he wouldn’t hear of it. It was always next year and then he would say that the shop was struggling to make money. Do you know we haven’t been on holiday in over ten years?’
‘So you’re saying he wasn’t really ill?’ Lasser turned slightly so he wouldn’t have to see Bannister’s scowl.
‘Well not ill as such; he seemed preoccupied as if something was worrying him.’
‘Have you any idea what that might have been?’ Bannister positioned himself in front of Lasser; it was a dismissal, his way of saying ‘don’t forget who’s in charge here.’
Lasser shuffled to the left.
‘He never told me what went on at the shop; he always said it was for the best.’
‘What do you think he meant by that?’
‘Have they moved him yet?’ she suddenly asked.
Bannister shook his head. ‘No, Mrs Weisman, this is a crime scene, in fact it might be better if you went to stay with relatives for a day or so.’
‘No thank you,’ she paused, ‘I just want him gone then I can get the decorators in.’
Lasser couldn’t help but smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Plymouth drove down the M56 towards Chester, keeping strictly to the speed limit. Muffled shouts drifted out of the boot so he turned up the radio, the Pogues were singing about being stuck in a drunk tank on Christmas Eve. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music.
The Way That It Falls: DS Lasser series volume 2 (The DS Lasser series.) Page 9