by J. E. Mayhew
“Wait!” Kath yelled and hurried after him.
The young man sprinted down the corridor, pushing people aside and scattering trolleys behind him to block the way. Kath raced behind, apologising and dodging around people. Each floor of the hospital had a bank of lifts and Kath saw the lad disappear into one and the doors shut behind him. “Shit!” Kath cursed, heading for the stairwell. Bounding two, sometimes three, steps at a time, Kath prayed she didn’t go A over T and break her ankles. She also wished she’d put a sports bra on this morning.
People yelled and another trolley went clattering to the floor as Kath spilled out of the stairwell into the ground floor just as the young man burst from the lift. Kath grabbed hold of him and wrestled him to the floor. “What’s your problem, sonny?” she snapped. “I just want a word.”
“Get off me! Help! She’s trying to mug me!”
A burly security guard ran up and was about to lay hands on Kath. “DI Cryer, Merseyside Police!” She barked and he skidded to a halt. “Help me to get this suspect somewhere private so I can talk to him.”
They manhandled him over to a small consulting room and sat him down in a chair. Kath pulled out her warrant card and waved it around in the direction of the guard and then put it in the young man’s face. “DI Kath Cryer,” she said again, panting for breath. “Don’t do that to me again, son.” She looked up quizzically at the guard.
“Lloyd,” the guard said, smiling. “Glad to help.”
“Thanks, Lloyd. Could you just watch the door while I have a quick chat?”
When Lloyd had stepped outside, Kath turned to the young man. “Okay, let’s start with your name.”
“You’re holding me against my will.”
Kath’s eyes widened. “Too bloody right I am, sonny. You were seen running away from a murder scene and then you bolted like a startled rabbit just now. So, clear the air and I can let you go. Who are you and what the hell were you doing at Hilbre Grove?”
The lad’s eyes swept down to his trainers. “My name is Dylan… Dylan Thomas…”
Kath narrowed her eyes at him. “Like the Welsh poet?”
Dylan rolled his eyes. “I get that all the time.”
“I have a boss who might sympathise,” Kath said, giving a tight smile. “So what relation are you to the owners of number two Hilbre Grove?”
“Grandson,” he said. “I just wanted to see them the other day. They’d be coming back from holiday, after three weeks and grandad likes to see me.”
“So why did you run?”
Dylan shrugged. “Dunno, really. Just all them coppers, I suppose. Made me nervous.”
“What made you run just now? Do I make you nervous?”
“No,” Dylan said, sweeping his long, red hair from his face. “But I knew that once I’d run from the house, you’d be looking for me…”
Kath gave a deep sigh. “Turn your pockets out, please,” she said.
“What?”
“Just humour me,” Kath said and rapped on the door. “Lloyd, can you come in and witness this, please?”
Lloyd came in and stood, arms folded. Clearly, he’d decided he was going to be ‘tough cop.’
Dylan shook his head. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”
“Well, I have reason to believe you have a controlled substance on your person,” Kath said, throwing her hands up. “And you can either show me here or I can take you down to the station and have you searched…”
“And you wouldn’t like that, sonny,” Lloyd said, performing an elaborate mime of putting a latex glove on. He even made the snapping sound at the end.
“D’you mind, Lloyd?” Kath said, raising one eyebrow.
Lloyd blushed and put his hand behind his back. “Sorry, Inspector… just trying to help…”
“Yeah, well I’ll ask when I need that, okay?” she turned back to Dylan.
“So? What’s it to be?”
Dylan huffed and puffed as he emptied his pockets onto the low coffee table between them. A phone clattered on the tabletop, then a lighter, a couple of coins and a debit card. Kath raised her eyebrows and tilted her head. “And?”
“God,” Dylan groaned and pulled out a packet of papers and a little block of resin wrapped in clingfilm.
“Is that for personal use?”
Dylan scowled at her. “Of course,” he said and then his face softened. “Oh God. You aren’t going to arrest me, are you?”
“I reckon your grandparents have got too much to worry about, right now,” Kath said. She frowned. “If you’d just walked past their house the other day, nobody would have batted an eyelid. Even if you’d been stopped, you could have told any officers who you were, and they’d have accepted that. I still don’t get why you ran.”
Dylan shrugged. “Can I go now?”
“Sure,” Kath said, nodding to Lloyd who held the door open and glared at Dylan with laser intensity.
Lloyd pointed a finger at Dylan as he sauntered past. “Stay icy,” he said. Kath gave him a pained look.
*****
Andrew Kinnear’s left arm ached from when he’d brought Mark Skelly crashing to the floor. Now he sat in the man’s kitchen sipping a mug of tea while Skelly’s wife passed her husband a bag of frozen peas for his eye.
“I just wanted to ask you a few questions…”
“It’s about them murders on the Wirral, isn’t it?” Skelly said, wincing as he put the peas on his eye. “I didn’t do ‘em. Honest I didn’t.”
“But you were in the Grove in the last couple of weeks, right?”
Skelly scowled at Kinnear. “Yeah. I bought a load of cheap cleaning stuff, sponges, brushes, you know. Thought I could sell ‘em…”
“D’you make much money?”
“Oh, yeah,” Skelly said, giving Kinnear a sarcastic grin. “Made a fuckin’ fortune. We’re about to sell up and move out to the country, aren’t we luv?”
“We’ve got a shed full of buckets and crap sponges, and no money,” his wife said. “Even if you had made a fortune, I reckon Vinnie down at the pub would have it in his till by now, anyway.”
“So, what day were you down there?”
Skelly shrugged. “Dunno. Week ago, two maybe?”
“You’re going to have to be more precise than that.”
“Yeah the Thursday. Anyway. It was nothing to do with me,” Skelly muttered. “Whoever was in that house was dead before I called.”
Kinnear frowned. “What d’you mean by that, Mark?”
“The stink,” Skelly said. “You could smell it outside. I didn’t know what it was then, did I? But I do now. I just thought they might be in need of some cleaning equipment given their house smelt so bad but there was no answer.”
“Was there anyone with you?”
Skelly looked shifty. “Yeah but I’m not telling their names…”
“Look, Mark, I know you didn’t murder anyone. But you’ve got previous for assault and worse. All I want to do is cross you off my list, right? I’m sure anyone who was with you would want the same. I’m not interested in you selling a few knock-off plastic brushes…”
“They weren’t knock-off!”
“Okay. Even better. You’ve probably committed an infringement of a bye-law or something,” Kinnear said, not even knowing if there was a bye-law against door-to-door selling. “It’s small potatoes compared to murder, right? Just tell me who you were with and I’ll be on my way.”
“All right then, if it’ll get rid of you.”
“You’ll never see me again, Mark, I promise.”
Chapter 27
Having had time to think as he drove across Wirral and back through the tunnel, Blake had thought back through the case; mulled over all the missed opportunities to catch the so-called Scissor Man and he wasn’t happy at all. He’d decided what he had to do.
Blake knew there was trouble ahead and, it seemed, so did half of Merseyside Police HQ. He tried to ignore the knowing glances that were exchanged as he made his way up to
Superintendent Martin’s office.
Martin sat waiting for Blake; another bad sign; normally, he was a master of shuffling papers and ticking off lists while you stood waiting in front of his desk like a naughty schoolboy.
“This is an absolute dog’s breakfast,” Martin said, even before Blake could close the door. Blake was aware of faces looking up from desks in the office outside.
“I know and I’m not happy about it, either, sir,” Blake said. “In fact…”
“Three people dead, Will. One of them a national celebrity. It’ll be all over the TV this evening no doubt. This is the case that just keeps on giving, isn’t it Blake?”
Blake pursed his lips. “I’m sorry, sir, I was ambushed by Ross Armitage yesterday. I can only assume that when he made our meeting public, it antagonised the killer…”
“And the press knew about it before we did! Journalists crawling all over the crime scene.”
“I suspect our killer has been under our noses all along, disguised as a PCSO, sir,” Blake said. “He’s been feeding the information about the murders to the press. I suspect he’s the one who tipped off the press about Armitage so they knew about it before we did. He did it to publicly humiliate us.”
Martin looked like Blake had just poured cold custard down his trousers and hadn’t quite processed what had happened. “It’s a mess. And one of the residents of the Grove ended up in hospital after volunteering for interview. How did that come about?” He said at last. “I’ve had the bloody Chief Constable and even the Police and Crime Commissioner bending my ear about you. My God, we look like a bunch of clowns. Whoever this Ralph character is, he’s running rings around us…”
“Me, sir. He’s running rings around me….”
“What?”
“I had him standing right in front of me just now and he got away. That’s why I need to take a step back from this case.”
Martin blinked. “What?”
“Whoever this Scissor Man is, he’s using Searchlight to compromise me. I need to be out of the equation.”
Martin pursed his lips, confused by Blake’s change of heart; normally he was like a dog with a bone. “I don’t know, Blake. I haven’t got the resources just to swap officers around. Matty Cavanagh is back off leave but he’s not as experienced as you are. Plus, I’m concerned about what our killer might do if we take his favourite man off the case…”
Blake steeled himself. “Would Ross Armitage still be alive if I hadn’t gone to visit him, sir?”
Martin winced. “You can’t blame yourself, Will…”
“Can’t I, sir?” Martin said, quietly. “It’s plain as day to me. Talking to Armitage provoked the killer. Maybe I was getting too close. I don’t know. But if I hadn’t gone over to Caldy, Armitage would be sitting in some voice-over studio right now.”
Martin heaved a sigh and sat back in his chair. “But you didn’t kill Armitage. It wasn’t your fault. He put himself in harm’s way by taking that selfie.”
“As far I can see, sir, this psychopath is enjoying rubbing our noses in the fact that we can’t catch him. We shouldn’t play his game anymore. I don’t know who will get hurt next. Take me off the case, put me onto something else or give me a few days off. Let Cavanagh run with this.”
Martin thought for a while, twisting his biro around in his fingers. Clearly, he’d intended to tear Blake off a strip and this turnabout had blindsided him. “Very well,” Martin said. “It makes sense. I’ll be honest, you look terrible. I’ve been worried about you burning out for some time, Will…”
“I’m not ‘burnt out’ sir. I just don’t want to be responsible for another death. I’ll pick up some of Cavanagh’s work; the Tuebrook assaults, anything…”
“No,” Martin said, narrowing his eyes. “Take a couple of days off. God knows, I was going to have a word with you about not taking your full leave entitlement anyway. Rest. Have a think about it.”
“Thanks, sir,” Blake said.
“Have a word with Cavanagh and the team. Do the hand over and get some rest,” Martin said. “Your mental health is important, Blake. Ours isn’t the best of jobs to maintain it.” He tried a smile but it looked false. Neither men were great talkers when it came to thoughts and feelings. An awkward silence fell between them so Martin did his trademark, ‘returning to the paperwork’ move. Seeing his chance, Blake hurried out of the office before Martin tried to smile again or, even worse, suggest counselling.
*****
If Blake thought stepping back from the case would give him some peace of mind, he was very much mistaken. For a start, he’d underestimated how much Matty Cavanagh would enjoy the turn of events. Cavanagh leaned against Kath Cryer’s desk, with that perfect white grin shining through his perfectly trimmed, black beard. But he made sure to keep his brow slightly furrowed so that he could show he was concerned. It also demonstrated to all the staff that although he approved of their efforts, he was slightly disturbed by the direction they had taken.
Handing over the case was the best thing to do but it grated on Blake all the same. He felt a sense of failure; maybe another reason he should hand over. This was a team effort; it wasn’t meant to be personal.
Cavanagh didn’t inspire confidence; he looked more like a best man at a wedding than a policeman, with his green suit and waistcoat. Blake wondered why he didn’t wear a buttonhole too. Also, Blake worried that Cavanagh lacked the imagination to crack this case.
“So, this Ralph was seen with the Kevney girl…” Cavanagh started.
“She’s a mother of two, Matty,” Blake muttered. “Hardly a girl.”
Cavanagh wobbled his head a little and looked perturbed again. DS Bobby Dirkin, Cavanagh’s sidekick, whispered in his ear. “Oh, yeah, right, sorry,” He gave Blake another frown. “So, this Kevney woman left the swingers’ club with the mysterious Ralph,” he gave Kath Cryer a nod. “Maybe we should go there undercover, Kath. What d’you reckon?”
Cryer reddened and rolled her eyes. “I reckon you should stick to the case, sir.”
“In the meantime, Ralph kills two people in houses that aren’t his. Pretends to be a police community support officer, and leaves fine art lying around at crime scenes.” There was a moment’s silence. Just enough for the whole case to seem contrived and foolish.
“There’s the whole matter of the sex tape made in the house prior to the bodies being discovered. Video footage that links the Whites with Ralph Vaughan and Ellen Kevney,” Blake added. “You can’t ignore that.”
Cavanagh gave a patronising nod. “Yeah, right. So, this Ralph is a bit of a pervert and leaves the house open after their little tryst. Maybe he tells someone in a pub? Or at Aphrodites. It doesn’t mean he’s our killer, does it?”
“The Taylors and Jean Quinn were sent on holiday, so their houses were empty. It was all premeditated…”
Cavanagh shrugged. “Could still be. I’m not saying your friend Ralph isn’t our Scissor Man. I just think we need to widen our focus. It could be that we’ve got too hung up on the activities of the Whites. Now, any other lines of enquiry?”
Kinnear put his hand up. “There was a van spotted in the Grove belonging to Mark Skelly, he has previous for aggravated burglary and some sexual offences too.”
“Great,” Cavanagh said, clapping his hands. “Let’s reel him in.”
Kinnear looked startled. “I checked him out today, sir. He has an alibi. He was in the area with some mates…”
Cavanagh looked at Dirkin and then back at Kinnear. “And you believed him?”
“Well, yes sir. He didn’t seem like he was lying. He was in the area selling crap cleaning stuff. The days didn’t match up…”
“Let’s have another chat with him and his mates, eh?”
“He doesn’t look anything like the man we’re hunting,” Blake added.
“Right,” Cavanagh replied, glancing down at his gold watch. “Get him in anyway.”
Blake ground his teeth. Cavanagh had as good as said,
“Are you still here?”
Kinnear looked uncomfortable. “Yes, sir.”
“What about this Albert Green fella?”
“Harmless, sir,” Manikas said. “Mad as a box of frogs…”
Cavanagh glanced at Dirkin again, who nodded. “Get him in too. Might be hiding something. Put a bit of pressure on him and see what happens.”
“He’s an old man, sir,” Manikas said.
“Old men do all kinds of weird things, Alex,” Cavanagh said. “Being old is not a get out of jail free card. We’re investigating three murders and an abduction. Let’s be realistic, four murders probably.”
“What about Ralph, sir?” DS Chinn said.
Cavanagh glanced over at Blake. “Let’s park Ralph for now. See what happens. It’s possible he’s just an attention-grabbing chancer who’s piggybacked this case…”
“He phoned the newspapers and told them he’d killed Ross Armitage,” Blake said, almost spitting the words out. “He left that copy of the Radio Times in Kevney’s car and spent months disguised as a PCSO, grooming the residents of Hilbre Grove. You can’t just ignore him.”
“Okay, where is he, Will? Where can we find him?”
Blake had no answer. And that was the point.
“Bobby,” Cavanagh said, turning to his sidekick. “Will you do the honours?”
Bobby Dirkin pulled out his notebook. He looked like a squashed, uglier version of Cavanagh. Short, stocky and balding. “Two of the seventeen vans identified by Mr Pleavin proved to belong to people with known convictions for property theft or violence. One of these lives locally to Hilbre Grove. In the estate around Hilbre Grove, there are five sex offenders, two with previous for burglary, too. HOLMES has thrown up thirty-two recent releases from prison who might be worthy of investigation.”
“That’s the backdrop to this case, Will. Our psycho might well be calling the shots but there’s a shitload of data there that needs crunching, people who need interviewing and that’s what’ll catch him. Someone in all that lot will have seen something or heard something and we’ll be onto him.”
Blake frowned. “And in the meantime, we just let him carry on? What about Ellen Kevney?”