Minds That Hate

by Bill Kitson

  ‘Bloody awful,’ Nash croaked. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Just gone eleven o’clock. I’ve brought you a drink. The tea bags are out of date, so I presume you’re a coffee drinker.’

  ‘Thank you, but how did you get in?’

  She smiled. ‘I never left. I’d to help you; you were out on your feet. It was three o’clock by then. I didn’t fancy walking through town, so I curled up on your sofa. I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘Why should I?’ The conversation was stilted. Nash couldn’t work out why.

  ‘Drink your coffee. Then I suggest you take a hot bath. It might ease the aches.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll shower when I get home. I’ve got the day off. I phoned the Gazette. Told them about JT and what happened at the flat, and at Grove Road.’ She looked suddenly anxious. ‘I hope that was alright?’

  Nash shrugged, painfully. ‘It’s going to be public knowledge soon.’

  ‘I had to use your phone. I think I lost my mobile.’

  ‘Feel free. Anybody rung?’

  ‘You’ve had three calls. One from your sergeant – she didn’t seem surprised to find me here. One from some guy called Ramirez. He called me “The Bride of Dracula”, whatever that means.’

  ‘That’s his idea of a joke. He thinks I’ve a morbid attraction for corpses. You said there were three?’

  ‘The other was from Aunt Gloria.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Nash groaned. ‘What did she say?’

  Becky smiled. ‘She demanded to know what I was doing here. Said she’d be having words with you. I told her it was okay, that you were in bed. She said that’s where you’re most dangerous. I told her you were asleep. She said maybe, but who knows what you were dreaming about.’

  ‘I’m really looking forward to talking to her.’ Nash’s sarcasm wasn’t lost on Becky. ‘I wonder what Mexican Pete wanted?’

  ‘Is that what you call Mr Ramirez?’ Nash nodded. ‘Why do you call him... Oh, Eskimo Nell, I see.’

  ‘I’ll stick some clothes on. I’ll bathe later. I don’t remember getting undressed.’

  ‘That’s because you were unconscious. I had to undress you.’

  Nash stared at the closing door. He shook his head; a bad mistake.

  As they drank another coffee, Becky asked Nash to explain the significance of what had happened at Grove Road. ‘Sergeant Mironova told me one or two bits,’ she prompted him, ‘but I think she was being careful. She knows where I work.’

  ‘As long as you understand this is completely off the record?’

  ‘I wouldn’t upset Aunt Gloria,’ Becky laughed.

  Nash told her a little of Vickers’ history, and the relationship with Fletcher. There must have been something in his tone that conveyed his doubt. ‘You don’t think Vickers was guilty?’ Becky suggested.

  ‘On the surface, the evidence looks cast iron. When you look deeper, things don’t add up.’

  ‘What about JT’s murder? Do you think that’s connected?’

  ‘I don’t believe in coincidence.’ Nash stared into his mug. ‘Tucker was killed close to where Stacey Fletcher’s body was found, and in a similar fashion. And Vickers’ movements are unaccounted for.’ Nash fell silent, his eyes reflective, his thoughts far away.

  ‘I’ve some photos Tucker shot,’ Becky volunteered.

  Nash looked at her, all attention now.

  ‘He brought some films for me to develop. I sent him the prints, but I kept the negatives.’

  ‘Can you remember what was on them?’

  ‘Some of Rathmell meeting Councillor Appleyard. Others were of Rathmell and a woman. They were...well, you know.’

  Nash grinned. ‘Really? Did you recognize her?’

  ‘No. I think Tucker knew, but he didn’t say.’

  ‘I want to see them.’

  ‘I can let you have them tomorrow.’

  ‘I’d better go to work. I dread to think what’s waiting,’ Nash sighed.

  ‘I’m going home. I’ve to write an obit on JT. First, though, I must take a shower.’ She glanced down. ‘I stink.’

  Nash stood up, slowly. ‘Thanks for everything, Becky. For saving my life, and for taking care of me.’

  Becky grinned. ‘We’re quits now; you saved me from the fire.’

  After she left, Nash walked stiffly to the bathroom. As he filled the bath he thought about Becky. She didn’t lack resourcefulness, or courage. She was intelligent and certainly good-looking. Nash thought about her godmother. He winced at what she’d have to say.

  He reached the CID suite shortly before 1 p.m. Clara looked harassed. ‘Glad you could tear yourself away from your girlfriend,’ she greeted him tartly. ‘There’s a string of phone calls waiting. The list’s on your desk. I’ve enough to do, without acting as your secretary.’

  ‘Sorry to have deserted you,’ Nash replied, so quietly Clara hardly managed to catch what he said.

  She looked at him closely. ‘Are you alright? The hospital said your injuries were nothing to worry about, but you don’t look well. And what’s happened to your voice?’

  ‘Smoke damage. I’ve a stinking headache, my back aches and my arm’s sore.’

  ‘I know about the fire, but nobody gave me details. What happened?’

  Nash explained. ‘The firemen reckoned another five minutes and we’d not have got out.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mike, I didn’t realize it was that bad. Sounds like you had two lucky escapes.’

  ‘I’ve Becky to thank for one.’

  ‘How long have you been seeing her?’

  ‘I’m not seeing her. I only met her last night.’

  ‘But she stayed at your place, so I thought you and she were ...’

  Nash shook his head. ‘She drove me home. She didn’t want to walk through town in the early hours, so she dossed down on my sofa. I didn’t know she was there until this morning.’

  Clara smiled. ‘Bit of a new experience.’

  ‘Better not make any snide remarks about her. She’s the chief’s goddaughter.’

  ‘Blimey! You know how to pick them. No wonder God’s been on the phone three times. If she thinks you’re sniffing around her goddaughter, you could be in big trouble.’

  ‘Not half as much as King.’ Nash related the encounter at the hospital. ‘That reminds me. When you get a free moment, I want you to give Jack Binns a call. I need some information from him about the fire at the Hassan flat.’ Nash explained what he needed. ‘I’d better start dealing with the phone calls – if anyone can hear me.’

  ‘Oh, I forgot. There’s a parcel on your desk, from forensics. It’s the camera retrieved from near Tucker’s body. They’ve found two sets of prints on it – Tucker’s and an unidentified set.’

  ‘Probably Becky’s. She lent Tucker the camera. I’ll call her later; I want to see what photos he took.’

  Nash sat down wearily at his desk and looked at the list. The chief constable, Superintendent Pratt, Professor Ramirez and the doctor in charge of A & E at Netherdale General. Alongside the last name Clara had scribbled ‘re Ronnie Fletcher’. Nash decided to get the worst over with.

  Contrary to his fears, the chief constable was concerned with his health. She barely referred to his overnight visitor until she informed him, ‘I had a long talk with Becky this morning. I understand you’ve been having some problems with DCC King. I’ve spoken to him on the matter. Let me know if there’s any more trouble. Now tell me what went on last night.’

  Nash described the chain of events. The chief listened without comment, right to the end. ‘Have you the personnel to cope?’

  ‘At the moment, yes, but if another major incident blows up we’ll have problems.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Pratt and Crawley. If you holler, they’ve to come running. With every man they can spare. And I want you to stop playing the hero. Don’t you put yourself in danger again. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ Nash croaked.

  ‘I’m not
going to insult you by warning you off Becky. She’s old enough to take care of herself. Just be careful not to hurt her. Understood?’

  ‘Loud and clear, Ma’am.’

  Pratt’s call was a repeat of the chief’s in many ways. Nash finished with him and rang the pathologist.

  ‘I understand you nearly finished up in one of my drawers?’ Ramirez began. ‘Well, don’t say I haven’t warned you.’

  ‘What did you want me for? Not just to enquire about my wellbeing?’

  ‘I found some bruising around Tucker’s mouth and nose. I ran a toxicology test. He was put to sleep before he was garrotted.’

  ‘Chloroform?’

  ‘Yes. That means the killer need not be someone of great strength.’

  ‘Could it have been a woman?’

  ‘I see no reason why not.’

  ‘Thanks, Professor. I’m not sure whether that makes things better or worse.’

  Nash was about to ring Netherdale General when Clara came in. ‘Jake and Gemma Fletcher are downstairs kicking up a fuss. They want Ronnie released from hospital, and they’re getting very aggressive. Do you want me to deal with it?’

  ‘No, I’ll talk to them. Do me a favour. Ring that doctor at the hospital and ask what the state of play is. Find out when Ronnie will be fit to be brought here.’

  Nash had seen photos of Gemma Fletcher in the Vickers case file. The woman standing by the reception desk was fifteen years older, but it didn’t show. Although she’d be over fifty she looked a good deal younger. She was slim, which helped, with fine features and high cheekbones. ‘I understand you’re asking about Ronnie Fletcher?’

  Gemma and Jake swung round. ‘Who are you?’ Gemma demanded.

  ‘Detective Inspector Nash. Your brother’s in Netherdale Hospital under police guard. When he’s fit to leave, he’ll be brought here. He’s facing charges of assault and attempted murder.’

  ‘Attempted murder! Killing that bastard shouldn’t be a crime. He should get a medal,’ Jake spluttered.

  ‘Possibly,’ Nash replied calmly. ‘However, I’m not referring to Vickers. Your brother will be charged with assaulting a detective constable and attempting to murder me.’

  ‘You’re making this up.’

  ‘He tried to hit me with an iron bar. If he hadn’t been stopped, the charge would have been murder. If you want to see him, I’ll allow one of you to visit, once he’s in custody. But I warn you, the visit will be recorded. Now, unless you’ve any questions, I’d like you to leave peacefully, and in future please refrain from intimidating my receptionist.’

  Clara reported that Fletcher would be fit for release next morning.

  ‘Make arrangements to have him brought here. I’ll complete my report then I’m going home. My head’s pounding.’

  He reached the flat, having called at the chemists. He’d barely got inside when the doorbell rang. He found Becky Pollard outside, clutching a carrier bag. ‘I came to see how you are. I thought if you weren’t feeling up to it, I’d cook you a meal.’ She proffered the bag.

  ‘I’ve a rotten head,’ Nash admitted, ‘and my voice has gone. Throat feels as if it’s on fire. How about you? You must be feeling rough, not that it shows.’

  ‘I’m much better. I got some sleep when I got home. Bit of a sore throat, that’s all. But I didn’t get knocked out. Are you brave enough to risk my cooking?’

  ‘Anything’s better than having to cook for myself.’

  Becky handed Nash an envelope. ‘These are the photos JT took. I had the negatives brought from the office and developed them at home.’ They spread the photos on the kitchen worktop. ‘I wonder who she is?’

  Nash didn’t respond. Becky glanced at him. He was staring at the photos. His mouth worked a couple of times before he spoke. ‘I was talking to her an hour ago.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Gemma Fletcher.’

  ‘Gemma Fletcher? Is she related to the man who attacked you?’

  ‘His sister. Gary Vickers’ ex-lover. The woman whose daughter Vickers allegedly raped and murdered. And here she is, enjoying a passionate encounter with a prominent politician.’ Nash bent to examine the photos. ‘In what looks very much like the place where her daughter’s and Tucker’s bodies were found. There may be more photos; I’ve got the camera back from forensics. The report says there were two sets of fingerprints on it – Tucker’s and another, probably yours. They didn’t think to develop the film. Could I ask a favour? Would you do it?’

  ‘Sure. When are you thinking of?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning?’

  ‘I’m not working. There’s no sporting fixtures to cover, so I’m all yours.’

  ‘That sounds promising. Before you handle the camera, I’ll need a set of your prints. I’ll bring the kit with me. I’m not sure what time it’ll be.’

  ‘No problem. Now, sit down and I’ll start cooking.’

  Next morning, Nash’s head felt clearer and his throat less sore. When he arrived at the station, Fletcher was already in a holding cell. Clara walked in quarter of an hour later.

  ‘You do the interview,’ Nash told her. ‘Get someone over from Netherdale to take in with you. Better if I’m not involved. I’m going to get the film from that camera developed. You sort out Fletcher and charge him. I’ll ask Becky to make a statement.’

  The flat Becky ushered him into was light and spacious, the furnishings modern, with light wood and bright colours tastefully blended. ‘Coffee’s on,’ she said. ‘Kitchen’s this way.’

  After Nash had taken her fingerprints he took the camera out of the evidence bag, handling it with latex gloves. He gave Becky a pair.

  ‘I’ll take this through to the darkroom when we’ve had our coffee.’

  The darkroom was little more than a store cupboard. ‘It used to be a pantry, but being on my own, I’ve no use for that much storage,’ she said as they crammed into the tight space.

  ‘No boyfriend then?’ he asked lightly.

  ‘Not at present.’ She was concentrating on the camera as she spoke.

  In the confined space, he could smell her perfume. His pulse quickened slightly. Careful, he thought. Don’t go there.

  She began the developing process. ‘Give it a few minutes. There look to be only half a dozen exposures.’

  The prints showed the time and date they were taken. Nash stared at the results. The first ones were of Vickers and Nash outside Felling Prison. He glanced at the others.

  ‘Is that who I think it is?’ Becky asked.

  Nash’s face was bleak, an expression she’d not seen before. ‘It is,’ he told her. ‘Look at the date and time – 5 p.m. on Tuesday. Tucker must have taken these just before he was killed. Probably dropped the camera in the struggle, which would explain how it fell into the rabbit hole. The killer can’t have known Tucker took them.’

  ‘You don’t think there’s any doubt?’

  ‘I don’t see how there can be. Tucker was killed in the same place as Stacey Fletcher. The weapon and method were the same. And here’s evidence of Vickers walking towards Tucker just before the murder.’

  Chapter eighteen

  Nash dialled Helmsdale station. DS Mironova was still interviewing Fletcher. He was put through to Pearce. ‘Viv, get Clara to ring me back immediately she’s finished, will you?’

  ‘Right you are, Mike. Oh, hang on, she’s here.’

  ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘Fletcher didn’t say a word.’

  ‘Don’t worry about him. I want you to get a warrant and go to Grove Road.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To bring in Gary Vickers –,’ Nash paused, ‘– on suspicion of the murder of John Thomas Tucker.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘Too right I am. I’ve just seen the film from Tucker’s camera. There are four shots of Vickers walking towards the camera. The time and date match.’

  ‘Hell’s bells!’ Clara paused for a moment. ‘There’ll be a right hull
abaloo when Fletcher finds he’s in the next cell to the man who killed his niece.’

  ‘That’s his problem. Get on it straightaway. I don’t want Vickers doing another disappearing act. Whilst you’re at it, get a search warrant for the house as well.’ Nash ended the call and stood for a moment, phone in hand.

  ‘I suppose you’ll want to dash straight off?’ Becky asked.

  Nash looked at her. Or at least he looked in her direction, but she realized his thoughts were far away, in deep concentration. Despite her godmother’s warning, she couldn’t help but wonder about him. What was it Aunt Gloria had said? ‘Better keep your hand on your ha’penny if he’s anywhere near you. They don’t call him Dead Eyed Dick for nothing. He’s had more women than I’ve had hot dinners.’ Should she take the warning seriously? He was certainly attractive. Not handsome, but pleasant enough. So what was it that women found irresistible?

  His gaze returned from the middle distance. At the same time he smiled. ‘Can I be cheeky, and impose on you for another coffee?’

  ‘That isn’t an imposition. When I’ve had enough of you, I can always throw you out.’

  ‘I need a moment or two to think.’

  She set the steaming mug in front of him. ‘I’ll leave you to it, if you want.’

  He caught hold of her hand. ‘No, stay, I want to bounce some ideas off you. I might have jumped the gun. Listen, and tell me what you think.’ He collected his thoughts. ‘Last Sunday I went to Felling, to collect Vickers. Tucker was waiting in the car park.’ He told her what had happened. ‘Vickers wanted to do some food shopping. Made some crack about the milk he’d left in the fridge being off after fifteen years.’ He related the conversation between Vickers and the till operator. ‘I was sure that was the reason Vickers went into the shop. He’d a maintenance company looking after his house and contents. Why not ask them to buy food? I believe Vickers engineered the conversation round so he could make that statement.’

  ‘Why do that? I’d have thought he’d want to keep a low profile. He must have realized the news would get round faster than if we’d splashed it all over the front page?’