Lost in dismal thought he almost missed the turning that led to Green’s house, he hit the brakes and the car swerved alarmingly, the rear end whipping round. Lasser twisted the wheel convinced he was going to plough sideways through the fence and into the field. The car lurched and slid to a juddering halt; he gripped the wheel tight and blew out a heavy sigh of relief. A cow looked at him over the top bar of a gate, steam whooshing out from its nostrils, mouth moving rhythmically as it chewed on a bale of straw. Checking the mirrors, he reversed and pulled onto the drive.
He was surprised to find the place in darkness, the house like a black stain against the woodland, wrapped in twilight shadows. Parking up he climbed out, immediately two security lights blinked on, splashing stark light over the thick snow. Beeping the alarm, Lasser ploughed his way to the front of the house, stopping when he saw the front door ajar, the cone of light pooled around his feet casting his long shadow to the left.
Jesus, he was already too late, climbing the three steps he peered down the darkened hallway. Stepping over the threshold, Lasser pulled out the small Maglite and flicked it on. The first door he opened revealed a small study with a desk and bookcase, a laptop opened and switched off stood on the table top. Pushing it closed he headed along the passage, his boot came down on something that cracked like small animal bones. He stopped, a sliver of glass sparkled up at him; sliding it to one side with the sole of his boot he carried on.
The huge lounge appeared fragmented, nothing in its place, the television had been dragged from its wall mounting and smashed on the floor, he swept the torch to the left, a strip of wallpaper hung in tatters the space reeked of spilled booze. Moving into the room, he kept getting glimpses of the destruction in the beam of light, the ornaments reduced to shards of pottery, the overturned sofa and the cushions scattered across the oak flooring, the large mirror trashed into countless pieces.
He could feel an icy breeze flowing through the room and spotted the gaping hole in the rear window, the garden awash with shadow, just below the window he could make out the shape of a sound system lying half-buried in a mound of snow.
When he heard the low moaning he spun around, a sudden dread rearing in his chest, the beam careered around the room, shadows rose and fell. Moving to the left he pushed open a small door and walked into the kitchen, two coffee cups stood on the table, unlike the living room the kitchen was neat and tidy, everything in its place. He stopped and listened, maybe his mind was fucking with him, the big empty house felt like the Marie Celeste.
He was about to turn and leave when he heard the sound again this time accompanied by a heavy thudding. Crossing the kitchen, he headed for the back door and stopped when he heard a muffled shout.
When the bang came, again, Lasser almost dropped the torch, his nerves ragged, he shone it to the right, and the beam picked up the narrow door sunk into the wall.
‘Get a grip,’ he whispered and gave the handle a twist, it was hardly a surprise to find the door locked. ‘Hello!’ he bellowed, the sound of his voice echoing around the cavernous kitchen.
‘Get me out of here!’
Lasser frowned and leaned toward the door. ‘Rimmer, is that you?’
‘For God’s sake, just find something to break the sodding lock!’
Turning he shone the light around the room until it landed on an array of knives and meat cleavers hanging from a rack attached the wall.
What the fuck was Rimmer doing locked in the cellar of Callum Green’s house?
‘Come on, Lasser, its bloody freezing down here!’
He hesitated for a moment and then grabbed the heaviest blade before moving back to the door. ‘OK, keep out of the way, this could get messy.’
‘I can’t see a thing its pitch black in here.’
‘Well just move away from the door,’ he thought he heard the sound of shuffling footsteps behind the panelling. Counting to three, he lifted the blade and brought it down on the lock, the wood splintered, a fragment pinged off and caught him on the cheek. Lasser winced and brushed his fingertips against the cheek his fingers came away smeared red.
‘Bollocks.’
‘Get a fucking move on!’ Rimmer sounded agitated, one small step away from full-blown panic.
Lasser attacked the door in earnest, the cold slab of steel rising and falling, eyes screwed shut on the downward stroke. When he felt the door spring open, he stepped back letting the makeshift battering ram clatter to the floor.
Clicking on the torch he shone it down the steps, Rimmer was standing halfway down, his face screwed up, one arm thrown up to cover his eyes. ‘Turn that fucking light off.’
‘What the bloody hell are you doing down there?’
Rimmer staggered to the top, he had always appeared dishevelled, now he looked like an officer worker who had lost his job, hit the bottle and had been living rough for a month. His suit looked as if it had been fashioned from crumpled newspaper, thick dust coated the left sleeve, and the trousers had a ragged hole in the right knee. Tie askew, hair sticking up like a toilet brush; he swiped a quivering hand across his bristle-covered cheek.
‘Drink,’ he whispered and hobbled over to the sink.
‘Jesus, you look like shit, I mean, what were you doing locked in there?’
Rimmer flapped a hand and turned on the tap before shoving his mouth into the flow, gulping down the water. Lasser could see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he drank.
When he turned off the taps and stood upright, Lasser could see a thin trail of dried blood on his forehead.
‘Are you OK?’
Rimmer grimaced, ‘Do I look OK?’
‘Well actually you look like shit...’
Rimmer glared across the kitchen. ‘Don’t try and be funny, Sergeant.’
‘But I don’t get it...’
‘I was here looking for Green, when I arrived I found the door open and the living room destroyed, the next thing some bastard came at me and smashed me on the head,’ he winced and touched a finger to his scalp. ‘Then to top it all off, he pushed me down the fucking steps.’
Rimmer shook his head as though the whole thing was unbelievable.
‘Any idea who did it?’
Rimmer picked up a tea towel and held it to his forehead. ‘Never seen the bastard before, but I’d recognise him again, this blonde hair and...’
‘Plymouth.’
Rimmer looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘You’ve seen this man?’
Lasser nodded, despite his boss’s depiction of events he still couldn’t fathom what he had been doing here in the first place. Bannister had said that Rimmer was off duty, so why...
‘Have you got a cigarette, Lasser?’
Pulling out the pack, he tossed them over, watching as Rimmer pulled one free with a shaking hand, and lit up.
‘But, I thought you were off duty...’
‘You’re not the only one who goes above and beyond, Sergeant. I wanted to find out what Green was up to, so I parked down the lane and decided to keep my eye on the place. I figured that with his brother missing and Jimmy Butcher being dragged away, he’d do something stupid and I wanted to be there when it happened.’
Lasser nodded, though he didn’t believe a word of it. The thought of Rimmer hiding in the undergrowth in sub-zero temperatures seemed like total bollocks, after all, wasn’t he the same man who stated that chasing the bad guys was an idiot’s game.
‘So you hid in the bushes, hoping to catch him doing what exactly?’ Lasser could hear the disbelief in his voice, but something wasn’t quite right here, something fucking stank.
Rimmer turned away and dropped the cigarette into the sink. ‘Come on, Lasser, you know what this man’s like, Green’s a nutter and eventually he was bound to blow his stack.’
More lies. ‘So you’re saying Green smashed the place up?’
Rimmer looked over his shoulder. ‘How would I know that, I told you when I got here the place had already been demolished and the door was
open?’
‘So you decided to simply walk in here without ringing for backup?’
‘As did you, Sergeant.’
‘Well actually, no, I’ve called for assistance.’
As if on cue, Lasser’s phone began to ring and he pulled open his jacket, right hand dipping into the pocket. In that slit second, Rimmer dragged another blade from the rack and launched himself across the room, his lips drawn back over nicotine stained teeth, his eyes suddenly wild with rage. Lasser lunged backwards the knife slicing through the sleeve of his winter jacket; he felt the tip of the blade nick the flesh just below the elbow. Grunting, he staggered back, his right hand scrabbled out; he grasped one of the kitchen chairs and sent it skimming across the polished floor. Rimmer tried to swipe it to one side, but the wooden leg slammed into his shin, the anger plastered on his face turned into a grimace of pain.
‘Bastard!’
Shoving the chair to the side, he came again, the blade swiping back and forth in the air like a pendulum keeping time. Lasser snatched a fruit bowl from the worktop and hurled it, this time Rimmer ducked and scuttled forward like some bloated insect. Lasser feigned to the left and then lunged to the right but Rimmer anticipated the move and covered the angle. The grimace had morphed again, a look of triumphant glee flashed in his eyes. When Lasser took another backward step and his foot encountered thin air, he heard Rimmer laugh and saw him lunge with the knife held out in front.
Grabbing the doorframe, Lasser heaved himself to the left, the blade snatched at his shirt and sliced through the material; he could feel the side of the knife laying cold against his fevered skin. Letting go of the doorjamb, he hooked his right arm around Rimmer’s neck and pulled; as he turned, he saw the stairs disappearing into the darkness.
‘No!’ Rimmer screamed as he saw what was about to happen.
‘Twat,’ Lasser hissed into his ear and lunged backwards, twisting as they fell. Rimmer hit the third step down with Lasser on top, the extra weight snapped his shoulder blade, the crack sounding loud in the silence before they both cart-wheeled over. Rimmer screamed in agony. Lasser felt his head slam against one of the spindles, he made a grab for the handrail and missed, and then they were turning again. Rimmer felt his arm suddenly become lodged tight in one of the steps, he tried desperately to stop the momentum, but his bodyweight carried him over.
Once more, the sound of shattering bone, though this time the sound was muffled, less severe. However, you would never have guessed it from the noise that Rimmer made. Lasser had once been called to an abattoir where a couple of Polish immigrants had fallen out over an overtime shift, the argument had become so heated that a meat cleaver had suddenly been brandished. He remembered the sound the pigs had made as they went to meet their maker; Rimmer was doing a perfect impression, a high-pitched squealing that drilled its way into your head until you could hear nothing but the pitiful scream.
Lasser clattered down the remaining few steps on his arse and landed at the bottom amazed that he was still alive. When he tried to stand, the darkness swirled around him and he fell back to his knees and retched. He heaved again, a dry hiccupping sound, a myriad of aches and pains throbbed through his body. Looking up he could see Rimmer silhouetted halfway up the steps, his arm twisted behind him, at an improbable angle, the scream intensified as he tried to move.
Lasser fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the flashlight, he twisted the end and the narrow beam suddenly widened, revealing the ruined body strapped to the chair. The head tilted back, gaffa tape stretched across the mouth; the face above the grey tape resembled a slab of tenderised sirloin. Lasser scrabbled away across the floor; hot bile rising in his throat, Rimmer continued to wail.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
Bannister rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and finger, trying to ease the pain that pulsated behind his eyes. He’d asked for Munroe to be brought to his office, he didn’t want to give the man the impression he was being questioned, rather him think that this was an informal chat type of thing. However, his ploy wasn’t working, Munroe sat opposite, a huge bull of a man wrapped in a camel hair coat, his copper coloured hair matched the colour of his shirt, the combination was doing nothing to ease Bannister’s throbbing head.
Despite his bulk Munroe had managed to cross his legs, the seams of his trousers stretched to breaking point, the watch on his wrist flashed and dazzled, his fat fingers covered with gold rings.
‘I’m sorry inspector but this has come as a shock, a hell of a shock. Caroline was a lovely young woman and I can’t imagine what this will do to her family.’
Bannister looked at the man opposite, his dour face scrunched in a parody of shock and disbelief. ‘Who do I see about offering a reward, because whoever did this has to be caught and locked away?’
‘That’s very generous of you Mr Munroe.’
The man waved a dismissive hand. ‘It’s the least I can do. I’ll be honest with you Inspector, there were one or two of my business associates who thought that opening a high-end jewellers in this town was a bad move,’ he shook his head sadly. ‘Perhaps if I’d listened to them then none of this would have happened.’
He paused as if waiting for Bannister to leap in and contradict him, but the DCI wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
‘Could you tell me where Stephen Foster was when the incident took place?’
Munroe shifted his considerable bulk and the chair groaned. ‘I am afraid I had to let Stephen go.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I gave him the opportunity to run his own shop, I believe in giving promising individuals the encouragement they need to prosper,’ he sighed. ‘However, I am afraid I made the wrong decision. I can overlook many things Inspector, but not negligence.’
‘You held him responsible for the robbery at the shop?’
‘Partly, though to be honest I was more concerned about the poor woman who died. The very least I would have expected was that Stephen had been first on the scene to assist Mrs Green.’
‘I see.’
‘It was unforgivable; trinkets can be replaced, though a life tragically taken cannot.’
‘Do you know the Green family?’
‘No, but I sent flowers to the chapel of rest.’
‘So, before the incident you’d never heard of Callum Green?’
Munroe uncrossed his ham shank legs and checked his watch. ‘That’s correct.’
‘And his brother?’
Munroe pursed his lips. ‘I wasn’t aware he had one.’
Bannister could feel his frustration starting to build, he had interviewed enough cons to recognise the ones you could push into making a mistake and the ones you couldn’t. He could sit here until the end of time and Munroe would simply keep answering all his questions in a polite manner, a supercilious smile on his Play-Doh face. It was like some kind of twisted game in which the dice were stacked against you. He closed his eyes and decided to play his ace.
‘Does the name Plymouth, mean anything to you, Mr Munroe?’
‘I holidayed there when I was a young man, a lovely part of the country,’ a flicker of a smile twisted the corner of his mouth.
Bannister ignored the quip. ‘According to one of my colleagues a Mr Plymouth was seen outside your shop yesterday.’
Munroe stifled a yawn. ‘As far as I’m aware there is no crime against window-shopping.’
‘He was in the process of locking up; he had keys to the premises.’
Munroe shrugged. ‘I’m sure you can appreciate that in any large company, keeping tabs on all employees is nigh on impossible.’
Bannister leaned forward until his elbows were resting on the desk. ‘Let me see if I understand you correctly, you have a shop selling items that cost thousands and yet you don’t know the names of the people who work there?’
‘I would have to look into that, but with Stephen leaving, his place would have to be filled, and I tend to leave decisions like that to others, after all, I am a
busy man.’
‘I’m sure you are, but I would appreciate it if you could provide us with details of all the people who work for you.’
‘I shall ask my PA to look into it and furnish you with the details.’ Munroe checked his watch again. ‘Now, unless you have anything more you would like to ask then I’m afraid I have a business to run.’
‘You see, the thing is we have reason to believe that this Plymouth character is responsible for the death of Callum Green’s brother and the disappearance of his brother-in-law. We also think he was the one who murdered Caroline Speakman and Thomas Speel inside your shop.’
Munroe’s face twitched. ‘Do I need to call my solicitor, Inspector?’
Bannister sat back in his chair. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘It’s just that in a roundabout way you seem to be hinting that I have knowledge of this man?’
‘Well, we know he’s been in the area for over a week, apparently working for you, but...’
‘Apparently, is the key word, Inspector. You claim that I know this Plymouth and I deny that fact, so we appear to be at a stalemate. Now, I’ll ensure you get the information you asked for but beyond that I can offer you no further assistance.’ He pushed himself up from the chair and fastened the buttons on his thousand-pound jacket. ‘Of course if I hear anything in the meantime then I will contact you immediately,’ turning he lumbered toward the door.
Bannister stood up. ‘I’d like to say I thank you for your cooperation but then again I don’t like to tell lies.’
Munroe stopped and turned, a frown forming on his flabby face then he broke into a huge grin. ‘I like an honest man, Inspector; it’s rare these days to find someone who tells the truth. If you ever find yourself looking for a career change then come and see me, I am sure we can do business.’
The Way That It Falls: DS Lasser series volume 2 (The DS Lasser series.) Page 30