Minds That Hate

by Bill Kitson

  As Appleyard headed towards the meeting place, he was so deep in thought he almost missed the turning. He swung off the main road, slowing to avoid missing the next landmark. He noticed a car parked alongside the dry-stone wall. He saw that the driver had left his vehicle, apparently to relieve himself. Appleyard hoped he hadn’t startled the man.

  Tucker was surprised, although not as Appleyard imagined. He heard the sound of the approaching vehicle before it came into view. He expected Gemma Fletcher’s flashy red convertible. To avoid suspicion Tucker adopted the stance of a man in the act of urinating. It was natural to glance over one’s shoulder at the intrusion on so private a function; Tucker was glad he was only simulating the act or his surprise might have provoked an accident. It wasn’t Gemma Fletcher’s car. Nor was it a female behind the wheel. Was this coincidence, or was the driver on his way to meet Rathmell? If so, to what purpose? It was understandable to want a secluded spot for an illicit romantic assignation, but this was obviously not the case. So why the secrecy? A meeting neither party wanted witnessed, that was obvious. Tucker’s journalistic instinct told him there might be more to this rendezvous than the adultery he’d set out to expose. Back to watching and waiting. But at least there was the possibility of something worth waiting for.

  Tucker waited almost an hour. The sun was hidden by low cloud and the wind blew cold. He was about to get back into his car when he heard the sound of approaching vehicles. As the first of them came into view, Tucker recognized it as Rathmell’s. He watched it speed past, noting that Rathmell was alone. Although his quest centred on Rathmell, the man he’d been meeting in such secrecy interested Tucker more.

  The car was travelling faster than on the outward leg. Despite this Tucker was confident he’d be able to read the number plate. The ground on the opposite side of the wall rose steeply, so his eyes were almost at road level.

  Tucker raised his binoculars and adjusted the focus. As he concentrated on the number plate, his vision was filled with a solid wall of white. Before Tucker realized what had happened, the car sped past and receded into the distance. The fading light had caused the car’s automatic headlamps to switch on. Tucker swore virulently at the trio of sheep grazing peacefully on the verge. They stared back curiously, before returning to their afternoon tea.

  The meeting had been a great success. Zydrumas emerged from the farmhouse, shook hands with the farmer and wandered to the end of the yard. He paused and lit a cigarette. His client was an ambitious man. He’d outlined plans for the development of the business. These would involve Zydrumas and his workforce. Part of the farm was on heavy clay. This made production difficult. The farmer intended to install tunnel greenhouses to enable a range of produce to be grown all year round. He was also planning to acquire two other farms, one in Lincolnshire and another in Scotland.

  Extra labour would be required. ‘What I need is a reliable workforce at reasonable cost. That’s where you come in. I want you to start straightaway. Leave Juris to run things here. He’s capable of controlling the other workers and reliable enough to take charge when I’m not about. That’s going to be increasingly often.’

  Zydrumas stubbed his cigarette out and opened the gate. The farmer had just made his day. He was about to do the same for Juris.

  Billy reached the allotments. The Immigrunts would have to stop work soon. Then they’d walk back along this track. Back from the work they’d stolen from people like Billy, towards the houses they’d stolen from people like Billy.

  This was what he’d been told. Billy had never applied for a job in his life. He wouldn’t have wanted a job if he’d been offered one. The Floyd family already had a house, provided free of charge courtesy of the local authority and any number of social security benefits. Billy didn’t think of this. All he knew was he hated Immigrunts. He’d torched a gippovan. Now he was going to go one better.

  He reached the place he’d picked, hid behind an elm tree and eased the knife from its sheath. A quarter of an hour passed. Then he heard footsteps. Billy strained his eyes. He peered through the foliage. Someone was walking on the path. Billy edged forward. The footsteps approached, slowly. The man on the path wasn’t hurrying. Billy moved further forward. A twig snapped under his foot.

  Silence. Then the man called out, ‘What is it? Who is there?’

  The accent was enough. Billy launched himself forward. He raised his arm. The blade gleamed as he brought the knife down. He struck again. This time there was no reflection from the blade. Or the next time, or the next.

  Chapter seven

  ‘What are you doing this weekend?’

  Clara looked up from the paperwork. ‘David’s home on leave – we’re going rock climbing. He’s picking me up. I’ll need gallons of coffee to stay awake on Monday. What about you?’

  ‘Not much. I’ll probably go for a pint. I was going to La Giaconda, but I’ll give it a miss this week.’

  Clara burst out laughing. ‘Still frightened of the Mafia?’

  ‘Too right. I’d a message on my voicemail from her brother.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Just, “Hello Michael, we need to talk about my sister. Call me”.’

  ‘No name?’

  Nash shook his head.

  ‘Well, that’s easy enough. Dial 1471 and it’ll give you his number.’

  ‘Damn! I never thought of that. No good now – I’ve had a load of calls since.’

  ‘You didn’t recognize his voice?’

  ‘No chance. My answer machine’s got a fault. Everyone sounds like Frankie Valli on helium.’

  ‘Where will you go for a drink?’

  ‘The Horse and Jockey. It’s a good pint, and I want to find out how your other boyfriend’s getting on with his new dog.’

  Clara looked at him suspiciously. ‘My other boyfriend?’

  ‘Jonas Turner. The one who calls you Sergeant Miniver. He asks about you whenever I go in.’

  ‘Oh, him. What’s this about a dog?’

  ‘He bought a Jack Russell to keep rats off his allotment. Apparently he was conned into it by one of his cronies. He was asking for advice and his mate sold him a Jack. Told Jonas they were “ferocious little buggers, one man dogs and it took a bite out of his missus’s leg”. Jonas was sold on the idea, much to his wife’s annoyance. She’s trying to make its life as miserable as Jonas’s. I want to find out how the training’s going.’

  ‘What training?’

  ‘He’s trying to teach it to bite his wife.’

  ‘That’s cruel.’

  ‘I’ll tell him you’re threatening to call the RSPCA, shall I?’

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  It was almost midnight when Nash left the pub. The door to his flat was in deep shadow. He located the lock, but couldn’t get the key in. After three attempts, he worked out that the key was upside down. He was about to open the door when a voice behind him whispered, ‘Hello, Michael.’

  The key fell onto the pavement with a clatter. ‘Oh bugger!’ Nash exclaimed. He squinted. ‘I didn’t expect you,’ he said weakly.

  ‘I said I’d be back. Didn’t you get my texts?’

  ‘Er, yes,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ve been busy though.’

  ‘I can see that. Are you going to invite me in?’

  ‘Oh yes, sorry. I’ll just find my keys.’

  She bent down and scooped the ring off the pavement. ‘Let me.’ She opened the door, then guided him through the hall and into the lounge.

  He smiled at her. ‘God, you’re lovely.’

  ‘And you, Michael, are drunk. I hope you’re not too drunk. I’ve been travelling for fifteen hours. I don’t want the journey to be wasted.’ She began to unfasten his shirt. Gently she fingered the puckered edges of the healed scar on his chest. ‘What’s this?’

  Nash looked down and shrugged. ‘Perils of the job. I was shot by a madman who objected when I tried to arrest him.’

  ‘A bit of an extreme reaction. Does it cause you any pr
oblems?’

  He grinned. ‘I hope not. You can judge if it affects my performance.’

  Later, Nash said, ‘I’ve a confession to make.’

  ‘What is it?’

  The beer had removed his inhibitions. ‘I’ve forgotten your name.’

  Her rich peal of laughter rang around the bedroom. ‘But, Michael,’ she told him reproachfully, ‘how could you forget my name?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he confessed miserably. ‘I realize it’s unforgivable.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. How could you forget my name when I’ve never told you it?’

  Nash sat bolt upright. ‘You mean that? I’ve been racking my brains to remember, and all the time you never told me? I don’t believe you. Are you pulling my leg?’

  Her reply was another outburst of laughter, smothered by Nash.

  As dawn was breaking, their sleep was interrupted by the phone ringing.

  Nash listened. ‘I’ll be right there.’

  He looked at her. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘A body’s been found. It sounds like murder.’

  ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I can’t tell whether I’ll be four hours or forty-eight.’

  She pulled the covers round her. As he began to get up she reached across. ‘I think you need an incentive.’ She kissed him, her tongue exploring his mouth, her hand gently massaging him. Eventually she released him.

  ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ he gasped.

  He was halfway through ringing Mironova’s number when he remembered she was off duty. With Pearce on holiday, Helmsdale had no one available. He cancelled the call and dialled Netherdale. ‘Who’ve you got in CID?’

  Nash waited a few moments. ‘DC Andrews is on call.’

  Nash dialled her home phone number. A few minutes later a drowsy voice answered.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Lisa. It’s Mike Nash. I’ve got a stiff on my hands.’

  ‘I don’t want to know your personal problems.’

  Nash grinned. ‘I mean a body; a murder victim.’

  ‘You pick your time, don’t you?’

  ‘I didn’t pick it, any more than the corpse did.’

  ‘It’s a good job I wasn’t up to no good.’

  ‘Aren’t you the lucky one.’ Nash looked down. ‘You should hear the complaints I got.’

  A sleepy voice from Nash’s bed muttered, ‘You haven’t heard anything yet.’

  Lisa said, ‘I’ll be on my way as soon as I’ve got dressed and had a coffee.’

  ‘A coffee! I wish somebody here would get out of bed and make coffee.’

  ‘You want coffee, try Starbucks,’ came from the bed.

  Lisa continued, ‘Where shall I meet you?’

  ‘Can you pick me up? I had a few last night, so I don’t want to drive.’

  ‘Give me half an hour.’

  The call to Andrews had been easy. Nash still had to ring the pathologist. He winced at the thought of what Ramirez would say. He hoped it would be in Spanish.

  Nash had just finished his coffee when Lisa’s car pulled up.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘Head for the allotments on the edge of the Westlea. A bloke walking his dog found a body. The victim is male, has multiple stab wounds to his chest and stomach.’

  ‘Any ID?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  The flashing lights pointed them to the crime scene. The constable keeping onlookers at bay acknowledged Nash and Andrews. ‘The guy who found the body’s over there talking to one of our men,’ he told them.

  ‘Did you check the body?’

  ‘No, we thought it better not to disturb anything.’

  ‘Good man.’ Nash nodded his approval. A tarpaulin sheet hid the body from view. As they got closer Nash stopped dead.

  ‘What’s matter, Mike?’

  He pointed. ‘The man who found the body. I was drinking with him in The Horse and Jockey last night.’

  ‘Ayup, Mr Nash.’

  ‘Now then, Jonas. This is a surprise.’

  ‘Surprise! It were hell of a shock, I can tell you.’

  Nash looked down to where the terrier was scrabbling for attention. ‘Now then, Pip.’ Nash bent and stroked the dog. ‘Did you find the body? We’ll make a police dog of you yet. You’re out and about early, Jonas.’

  ‘This is one of my busiest days. Greengrocer calls on his way back from market. I’ve to be ’ere to load him up. Then I let Pip have a run before I go back home for t’ toast the wife’s cremated.’ Jonas’s gaze strayed to Lisa. His eyes sparkled pleasurably.

  ‘Who’s this then?’ He nodded towards Andrews. ‘What have you done with Sergeant Miniver? Don’t tell me she’s been transferred?’

  Nash smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Jonas. She’s off duty, that’s all. This is Detective Constable Andrews.’

  Turner surveyed the replacement. ‘By gum, Mr Nash, they’ve got it right when they call it a bobby’s job. You surround yourself with some smashers, don’t you? Pleased to meet you, Miss Andrews. You’d better watch yourself with Mr Nash. He’s allus got one girl or another on his arm.’

  Jonas winked conspiratorially at Lisa. ‘Aye, I reckon he’s a bad lad, is our Mr Nash.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Lisa told him cheerfully, ‘we all know that. Anyway, I’m spoken for.’

  Turner’s face fell. ‘Damn. And there I was, thinking my luck had changed.’

  Nash reverted to business. ‘What time did you find the body?’

  Turner scratched his head thoughtfully – no mean feat for one wearing a flat cap. ‘It were just gone five o’clock when I left home. Takes me quarter of an hour to get here, so I’d be at t’ allotment by about quarter past, twenty past at latest.’

  ‘Was there anybody about?’

  ‘Not a soul. I’d have noticed, specially at that time.’

  ‘How long did it take you to load the produce?’

  ‘I’d to cut it, or dig it up. Then wash t’ mud off, say half an hour, three quarters at most. We’d been walking about ten minutes afore we found t’ poor chap.’ Turner gestured to the tarpaulin.

  ‘So we’re talking about six o’ clock to half past,’ Nash suggested.

  ‘Aye, that’d be about right. Then I’d to bike it into town to phone your lot. I tried t’ boxes over there,’ Turner jerked a thumb towards the Westlea, ‘but they’d all been vandalised. If you work back from t’ time I called in, say a quarter of an hour afore that.’

  ‘Did you look at the body?’ Nash asked.

  ‘I saw enough.’ Jonas shuddered.

  ‘Did you recognize him?’

  Turner scratched his head again. ‘I did and I didn’t.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know who he is...was. But I’ve seen him about. Never spoken to him, but I noticed him round here a time or two.’

  ‘When you say “round here” where do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve seen him a few times on this path. Enough for me to think, There’s that chap again, if you get me.’

  ‘Okay, that’ll do. We’ll need a statement later, but we’ll let you get off for your breakfast. We don’t want your wife worrying.’

  ‘That’ll be the day.’ Turner sniffed. ‘It’ll be cinders by now.’

  They watched Turner walk towards the allotments. ‘That doesn’t sound like a marriage made in heaven,’ Lisa suggested. ‘What makes a man so bitter about his wife?’

  ‘You haven’t met her.’

  They were interrupted by the uniformed officer. ‘The pathologist’s here.’

  ‘This should be fun,’ Nash said, as they approached Ramirez. ‘Good morning, Professor.’

  ‘It was,’ the pathologist said sourly. ‘Can’t you save your necrophilia until normal hours?’

  ‘I didn’t choose the time,’ Nash protested. ‘You know DC Andrews, do you?’

  Ramirez nodded. ‘Don’t get
hooked up with Nash,’ he told her. ‘Not unless you share his passion for cadavers.’

  ‘We’ll let you get on with your examination,’ Nash told him. ‘Check the body for identification, will you? We’ll be over by the road when you’ve finished.’

  The SOCO team were stringing their incident tape in a wide circle round the area when Ramirez reported back. ‘There’s nothing to identify the victim. A couple of the coat pockets were inside out. There are several stab wounds to the chest and abdomen. Any of them would have caused death. The deceased has been deceased for between ten and fifteen hours. That’s as much as I can tell you until the post-mortem.’ Ramirez nodded to Andrews and walked briskly to his car.

  ‘What’s the significance of the pockets?’

  Nash looked at Lisa. ‘Removal of identification, I guess. Whether that was to make our job harder, or whether there’s a deeper significance, I’m not sure. We need to ask Turner if he was at the allotment late yesterday and whether he saw anything then. Let’s give him chance to digest his cremated toast. Then we can take him with us to Helmsdale station and get his statement. I’ll have a word with the SOCO leader, then we’ll get something to eat.’

  ‘There were nobody about yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Have you noticed anyone hanging about there recently, Jonas?’

  ‘I don’t know if it’s worth owt, but I noticed a car there a couple of days ago.’

  ‘You don’t happen to know the make or model?’

  Nash was surprised when Turner said, ‘Aye, I do.’

  Nash looked up.

  ‘It were a Superdo.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A Superdo. One of them sporty things. A Superdo Impressor, I think they call ’em.’

  The fog in Nash’s brain cleared. ‘You mean a Subaru Impreza?’

  ‘Aye, that’s reet.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Next-door neighbour’s son; spoiled rotten. Soon as he got a licence they bought him one of them Superdos. He super-did it up.’ Jonas chuckled at his own joke. ‘It made a hell of a racket. All hours of t’ day and night. He had it a year; then wrote t’ bugger off. We all slept better after that – until t’ little sod bought a motorbike.’