Mr Stephenson was sitting in front of his spacious shed, halfway down his allotment, on a foldaway picnic chair. A tin cup lay on its side just out of reach of the man’s dangling hand. He looked of retirement age, wearing a checked shirt and jeans under a waxed jacket, with a pair of muddy green wellington boots completing his outdoor appearance. His head was as far back as it could go, and his face had taken on a swollen and purplish hue. As the detectives moved in to get a closer look, they could now see that his cheeks were bulging, as if something was filling out the insides of his mouth.
‘SOC have already taken a look inside, and his mouth is full of sweets.’ Montgomery offered him a pair of nitrile gloves, which he took from her and put on.
‘Sweets?’ Burton repeated, gently parting the man’s lips while gesturing for Fielding to come over and see for herself. She peered in to get a better look. It was certainly a bewildering sight; they’d never come across such an unusual case of asphyxiation before, where the victim had had their mouth stuffed full with multi-coloured candy sweets to choke them. If indeed the scene was as it seemed, and had not been staged to look that way.
‘Did the person on the neighbouring allotment say that Mr Jacobson was always here at about this time?’ Burton asked, trying to ascertain if this was indeed the place of death.
‘Yes,’ Montgomery affirmed. ‘Always here between eleven and two, apparently. Regardless of the weather. The neighbour can vouch for that. Said you could set the clock by him.’
‘So it looks as if he was killed here,’ Burton said out loud what he was thinking. He stood up from the body and looked around. It was a desolate spot, ideal for gardeners who wanted to get away from it all, and ideal for anyone wanting to commit a murder. ‘So, whoever killed him probably knew his movements, and the fact that this seems to be a very quiet spot and they wouldn’t be disturbed.’
‘It certainly looks that way,’ Montgomery agreed with him.
‘You said you found something else here that we might be interested in?’ he reminded her.
‘We found this on the ground beside the body,’ she said, holding up a poly bag with a playing card in it. Burton and Fielding exchanged glances, each knowing what the other was thinking and what that disclosure meant. ‘We understand that you found something similar beside the dead body at the care home.’
They had. But that had been the joker. This one was the jack of spades. And it now looked as if the two deaths were related, and committed by the same person.
6
‘But it doesn’t make any sense,’ Wayman said when Burton and Fielding had returned to the station and had gathered the team around to inform them of what had just happened. ‘What could the connection be between Mr Jackson and Mr Stephenson, other than the fact they are both elderly men?’
‘It’s the playing cards that I don’t understand,’ Banks said. ‘Unless…’ a sudden thought hit him, ‘the joker playing card was beside Mr Jackson in the home, wasn’t it? And the jack of spades left next to Mr Stephenson who was found at the allotment? Joker… spade… just thinking. Was Jackson supposed to be dressed up to look like the comic book character of the joker, and did Stephenson have the spade left beside him because he was a gardener?’
‘It’s a possibility,’ Fielding said. ‘Maybe they did know one another, and the playing card signifies gambling, perhaps? Did they play cards together? Did they both owe money to somebody and were killed for it? Leaving a card, and a different one at that, seems to signify something.’
DC Phillipa Preston offered her take on things. ‘Maybe there was some sort of older person’s underground whist drive, and the victims owed money to another member of the club?’ Along with Fielding’s idea, and Wayman’s seemingly odd suggestion, this had actually started them thinking about a money connection. ‘Well, let’s face it,’ she continued when seeing a spark of interest in the other team members, ‘we’ve had very odd reasons for someone committing murder, haven’t we?’
‘Well, it could be I suppose,’ Fielding said. ‘As you say, we’ve had far stranger. Plus, if there’s money involved, then I’m sure that there may even be some sort of connection to the city’s more criminal element. The cards certainly seem to be important.’
At that point, Burton’s office door opened. A telephone call had temporarily dragged him away from the discussions. ‘No connection to one another,’ he announced, with more than a hint of despondency. ‘Just come off the phone with DS Montgomery. She’s spoken to Mr Stephenson’s widow and she’d never heard of a Mr Nathaniel Jackson, or the care home in Middleton.’
As he was listening to the theories the team had come up with during his absence, DCI Ambleton appeared in the doorway, looking as if a great weight was hanging over her. ‘I’m sorry, everyone,’ and she really did look as if it was grieving her to say it, ‘but I’ve had to call a meeting with the press and media in the main conference room this afternoon. This has come directly from the commissioner’s office, not from me, before I get the full blame for this. The media were all over this before when we were looking for Carruthers, but even more so now, now that we have a second death. I don’t know who’s leaked this so soon or where they got the information from but they seem to know about the playing cards that were found at both scenes.’
Fielding looked around the room at the DCs and the other administrative staff present, unable to imagine that any of them would be irresponsible enough to jeopardise their investigation to that degree; but she also recognised the fact that money talked – and any newspaper or journalist would pay a pretty penny for a titbit of information that would give them the edge in the game of printing exclusive news first before their rivals. Still, it was far more likely that somebody from the care home had contacted the press rather than a member of her own team. Or so she hoped.
‘We’ve got a couple of theories about that, boss,’ Burton said, dreading the prospect of having to go up against the media so soon after the last case they’d just closed. He’d faced the newspapers and television reporters a few times in the past month and they’d never said anything kind about the police during this time, despite all the team’s time, their hard efforts and emotional involvement in the homeless man’s case. Not even an apology in the end when they’d solved it; and it wasn’t by sheer luck either, but rather by their procedural detective work and the entire team’s dedication and devotion to the job. Journalists – scum of the earth, he thought to himself.
Listening to their ideas, the DCI thought anything to be possible at this stage, but felt certain that the cards were a definite link. Otherwise, why leave them? Yes, they were important to the killer somehow – but for what reason? ‘Now, I know that I don’t have to tell you this, Burton, but don’t go telling them more than they need to know about this. I know just how much you hate these conferences. So do I. But I’ll be sitting there alongside you, and if you need help, I’m right there. Just say that we are investigating two unrelated deaths, claim ignorance on the playing cards if they come up – which they probably will if they already know about them – and show them the sketch artist’s drawing of the phoney nephew, saying it’s someone we are looking for to help us with our enquiries. And…’ she added, before exiting through the door, ‘for God’s sake don’t even mention the possibility of a serial killer. That’s the last thing we want the media getting their grubby hands on right now.’
Burton’s relationship with the press was something he didn’t care to think about. The DCI had said to him once, ‘Better a bad relationship than no relationship with them.’ But he completely disagreed with that statement. He couldn’t count the number of times he and the press had locked horns over the years, and the last thing he wanted was to go up against them again today. They may well have their uses in that they could convey messages out to the public – like putting Alex Carruthers’s photo all over the media – but in his mind, that was all they were good for. He had learned from experience that, if they didn’t have or weren’t provided
with a story, then they would simply go ahead and make one up for themselves, which was bad news for everybody – especially the police. But perhaps he was being a bit cruel. He didn’t doubt that, out there somewhere, there were some good reporters – it was just that he’d never once in his life actually met one.
Preparing himself mentally for the verbal assault, DI Joe Burton closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths as he waited outside the conference room with his DCI. From the safe position on this side of the door, he listened to the noise from within. He could picture the scene he was about to venture into: camera flashes, television crews, journalists all vying for the best position near the front, all waiting to launch a barrage of questions and give him the third degree about what was looking to the team to be the beginning of a serial killer investigation. That’s what comes from being the senior investigating officer on a case, having to face the inevitable media wolves at the door. The DCI gave him a quick glance and nodded for them to go in. Here we go, he thought. Like lambs to the slaughter.
As expected, the room erupted when they entered and they took their seats at the table which had been set-up to face the hordes. And there were hordes – about ninety or a hundred faces confronted them, mouths all moving at the same time, with either hands in the air already eager to ask a question or pen in hand, hovering over a notebook, eagerly waiting to take down whatever was said. He saw BBC, ITV and SKY news cameras pointed at the two of them, all set-up and ready to go. Burton couldn’t hear himself think, such was the level of noise in there, and he could feel the start of a headache moving its way across his forehead from his left temple to the right. That was all he needed on top of everything else.
‘All right, all right, keep the noise down, everyone. We’re here for a press conference, not to hold some sort of battle re-enactment!’ Sounding every bit like a head teacher in an unruly school assembly, DCI Ambleton’s voice boomed into the microphone on the table in front of her, causing a brief burst of very high-pitched feedback on the last word. A few of the reporters covered their ears at the sound of it.
Burton smiled inwardly to himself; he’d enjoyed that.
When she thought that the noise had subsided enough, she spoke again. ‘Detective Inspector Burton will answer any of your questions today but please bear in mind that this is an ongoing criminal investigation, so there is only so much that we can give you. Okay, let’s begin, and you can start your cameras now.’ She looked towards the TV crews as she said it.
Of course, nobody listened to a word she had said, and questions came flying fast and furiously from all parts of the room about every single aspect of the two deaths. He heard Ambleton sigh beside him. Even without turning to look at her, he could picture her rolling her eyes right now – and that brought another smile to his face. Hopefully nobody caught that on camera, as he could imagine the headlines accompanying that one. At least it took the pressure off him for a few seconds before the cross-questioning began. All the usual questions came flying one after the other, and Burton stayed calm throughout, strongly fighting back the urge to give them the most ridiculous answers he could. ‘How long will the enquiry take place?’ and ‘Do you have any suspects?’ being just two of the standard run-of-the-mill questions to which he would have loved to have replied to by saying, ‘How long is a piece of string?’ and ‘Of course we have, we’ve already made an arrest.’ But he behaved himself for his boss. He’d promised her that he would.
Then the big one: ‘Paul Johnson, Manchester Evening News. So, do you think that there’s a link between the two deaths, detective inspector, or are they unrelated?’
Actually, Burton was surprised it had taken so long. It was the question he had been dreading, and the one the DCI had warned him about, so he was aware that he had to respond to it with extreme caution. The room fell silent as all eyes fell on him, everyone eagerly awaiting his reply. None more so than the detective chief inspector.
Taking a breath, DI Burton answered that question in the only way he thought possible under the circumstances. ‘We are treating both deaths as suspicious, but do not know if they are linked at this moment in time.’
‘But could they be?’ Paul Johnson continued to push for an answer.
Pushy little sod, Burton thought, but he wasn’t going to give in that easily. ‘You’ll know as soon as we do, Mr Johnson – you all will,’ he said, looking around and directing his gaze from the reporter to the rest of the people in the room.
‘Okay, that’s all we can tell you today,’ DCI Ambleton said, rising from her chair, sensing that her DI was nearing the end of his tolerance with them. She indicated for Burton to do likewise despite the expected protestations from the crowd before them. ‘As the detective inspector said, we will keep you updated with any further progress in this matter. Thank you all for coming.’ And with that, Ambleton and Burton turned to leave despite demands for them to stay, and made their way back to the safety of the far side of the conference room door.
‘Well done, Joe,’ Ambleton said when they walked through the door and it had closed behind them. ‘You held it together well.’
‘Just.’ He laughed, eager to go off and grab himself a good cup of coffee, and relieved that it was now all over. ‘I hate them, all of them, they just get my back up every time.’
‘I know they do,’ she agreed. ‘Me too, but sadly they are a necessary evil, and we just have to grin and bear it and play along with it. Like I said,’ she gave him a gentle pat on the back, ‘you did well.’
7
Parting company with Ambleton at the lift, and promising to keep her updated every step of the way, Burton made his way back to the incident room. As he pushed open the door, DC Francis shouted, ‘Sir,’ and waved a hand in the air to catch his attention. Seeing it, he walked over to her desk.
‘We’ve just had a call come through about a break-in in Altrincham. The next-door neighbour saw something going on in the empty property and her husband went out to investigate, and got himself a head injury for his trouble. He’s currently in hospital in a critical condition.’
Fortunately, this time it wasn’t anything linked to the ‘Playing Card Killer’, as the press had so kindly called the murderer. They hadn’t actually referred to him as a serial killer yet, but that would doubtlessly come in due course. Fortunate in that respect, but unfortunate for the poor victim of the break-in. As Burton sent DCs Banks and Francis out to speak to the injured man’s wife, he brought Fielding up to speed about the press conference.
‘I think we should go and question the man who has the adjoining allotment to Mr Stephenson’s, and also speak to the widow,’ he said, grabbing a bottle of water from the mini fridge and almost downing it in one go. ‘When I spoke to DS Montgomery from the crime scene before going into the conference, she said that she’d been to the dead man’s house afterwards, but she didn’t have the sketch of the man claiming to be Mr Jackson’s nephew. It’s a long shot I know, but the widow or the friend may recognise him from somewhere, or even know him, even if they think there’s no connection with Jackson and the home. Perhaps the man had been to see Mr Stephenson at his allotment?’
Fielding nodded. ‘It might very well be a long shot, but it’s all we have to go on at this moment. I’ll ring DS Montgomery and get their addresses from her.’
‘Mr Stephenson’s widow has gone to stay with her son for a while,’ Montgomery told her when she rang. ‘I’ll text his address over to you, along with the friend’s address from the adjoining allotment.’
‘Before we go,’ Burton said to Fielding, ‘can you get in touch with Northumbria Police and get someone to go out and have a word with the manager of the company where Alex Carruthers works during the week. Have him confirm Carruthers was actually there the past few days. He’s the only suspect we have at the moment, but if he was up there in the north east, then he couldn’t have been down here in Manchester now, could he? Which leaves us having to try even harder to find that person posing as Jackson’s n
ephew. They’ll understand your accent and you theirs; they’ll not have a clue what I’m saying.’
Fielding gave him a withering look and he laughed, even though he didn’t feel up to laughing at that moment.
Peter Cousins lived just a short distance from the allotments, and looked as if he was still suffering from the shock of finding his friend dead when he opened the front door to Burton and Fielding.
‘We’re sorry to disturb you at this difficult time, sir,’ Burton had said after they had been invited in and were sitting down in his front room. He would have put Cousins at either late sixties or early seventies, judging by his first impressions of him. Although these days, he had to admit, it was becoming more difficult to determine a person’s exact age as older people – especially in the age bracket he’d guessed Cousins to be in – were looking a lot younger than they used to. It was clear to look at him that here was a man who enjoyed the outdoor life. His ruddy complexion was a testament to that, but at this precise moment in time, the ruddiness had given way to a pale, washed out look which frequently followed shock. He was probably itching to get back to his allotment right now, desperate to in fact, but Burton felt that what he’d found there earlier would hamper his keenness to get back there any time soon.
‘I know I’ve got to go back there to get everything sorted out for the winter coming along,’ Cousins said, looking wistfully out through the window, ‘but don’t see how I can face it for a while yet, considering, you know, finding him like that.’
‘Well you don’t have to, Mr Cousins,’ Fielding tried to console him, but sensed that it wasn’t helping; he looked too far gone for that. ‘That’s understandable, and I’m sure one of your friends can come along and help you with that.’ She could see a tear trickle down his cheek from his watery eyes.
Murderland Page 5