‘Guv.’ Stark signed and left.
So be it, thought Groombridge, rubbing his eyes; the die was cast. How much sleep had he lost over all this? No one got fired, that was the main thing, and he had positioned the best people as well as he could. And it had taken his threat of resignation to win that. Cox still had it in his drawer. Committee approval was conditional on all the pieces slotting into place without costing a bean. Exams could be failed, Harper could refuse to go quietly and the case might still explode.
It was endearing that they both seemed as upset at Groombridge’s potential move as their own, accepting advancement that would effectively tear him away from the investigative branch for good. But one couldn’t dwell.
Fran of course had protested volubly over Stark’s advancement. He wasn’t ready, the others had seniority, et cetera. But Stark had over seven years as constable. Take away his military service and injury and he still had five; the same as Dixon and only slightly fewer than Hammed. Williams had eight, but he’d stay career constable if he possibly could. They all had the years, but only Stark was ready. The army considered him sergeant material and the others already looked to him. They’d have to find the second DS from outside; low pay-grade, of course, but therefore fresh, mouldable, and on a level playing field with Stark.
Fran might have questioned Stark’s long-term commitment, but she’d left that card unplayed and Groombridge had neglected to mention Stark’s loaded leave request that morning.
She needed to be able to say this had been forced past her, but her objections were hollow. Stark got under her skin because she couldn’t get a complete handle on him, but perhaps for that same reason a bond had formed that she didn’t have with the others. And when she went out banging on doors she took Stark along more than the rest, for obvious reasons. For all her bluster, he was the obvious choice. They made a good team.
And it was in that team that Groombridge had to place his faith and future hopes. God help them.
What Fran’s expression told Dixon and Williams as she wandered back into the office was anyone’s guess. They knew nothing of last night’s fireworks, but a summoning to the guv’nor’s office would have anxious minds racing.
Her sullen silence didn’t help. They watched her as they might a suspicious package, tiptoeing around in case she started ticking, or worse. No one was about to ask what had transpired. Stark arrived twenty minutes later and placed a coffee and Danish in front of her, taking his own to his desk without a word.
‘Thanks,’ she said numbly, earning even more worried glances from the two DCs and studious ignoring from the visitors who’d probably been warned to avoid her wrath.
The phone broke the silence. ‘DS Millhaven,’ said Fran, savouring the prefix in a way she hadn’t since it was new.
‘Control. We’re getting multiple reports of shots fired, Rawlings Luxury Cars, Blackheath. ARU and ambulance en route. Suspect fled on black motorcycle.’
68
‘If a hundred bankers at the bottom of the sea is a good start, what should we call one used-car salesman full of bullets?’ asked Fran, standing over the body.
‘A cautionary note to estate agents?’ suggested Marcus Turner without looking up from the corpse. Jim Rawlings, forty-one, owner and manager, buying and selling in the luxury marques, Beamers, Mercs, Jags and the odd Porsche, from classics to nearly-new via pimped rides and heaps, polished up and sold on. The place looked as though it was doing well enough, but independents like this always lacked the big-money gloss and uniformity of brand dealerships. ‘Someone certainly had a point to make with this one. First shot to the face. Bullet left the skull and fled through that window; no sign of it yet. Death would’ve been instantaneous, but the killer paused to put four more in the chest all the same. Thorough, messy, and now familiar.’
‘Shit.’ Fran sighed. ‘Forty-five again?’
‘Actually, the bullets from Clive Tilly were point four-five-four, three-hundred-grain. Unusually large. Not many revolvers can carry the load.’
‘How about a Taurus Raging Judge Magnum?’ said Stark, beckoning them into the showroom office, and pointing at the CCTV monitor with the remote. The image he’d paused was the killer, arm outstretched, gun aiming directly at the victim’s terrified face. ‘Five shots. Into Tilly. Into your car. I should’ve guessed. Very unusual for a revolver. I saw some idiot jar-heads at Camp Bastion waving prototypes around thinking five rounds from “the most powerful handgun in the world” was more impressive than fifteen from a nine-mil auto you could reliably keep the sand out of.’
‘I thought the Dirty Harry gun famously had six bullets,’ said Fran, trying to appear knowledgeable and immediately feeling foolish.
The two men shook their heads in sync. ‘That was a Smith & Wesson,’ said Marcus.
‘The Taurus stole its crown,’ explained Stark, without any condescension she could justifiably take offence to.
‘The bullets were jacketed hollow point, severely domed,’ added Marcus.
‘The Yanks love overkill.’
‘What is it with boys and guns?’ she muttered. All she could tell was that it looked big, even in the hands of Simon Kirsch. Assuming it was Kirsch. Right build and height.
‘Don’t look at me,’ said Marcus. ‘Can’t stand them. I see too much of this sort of thing.’ He glanced at Stark in case he’d offended, but Stark just nodded.
There was sometimes a perverse camaraderie between the two that made Fran feel left out. Ludicrous, of course. As a younger man, Marcus had done a spell in the reserves as a doctor. She had no idea whether Stark knew – likely he did. They probably had a secret handshake or code word.
Side by side they could hardly have been more different, yet both seemed perfectly at home, even in these wretched ball gowns. The SOCOs had overalls that fitted, disposable or not, but the blue visitors’ suits came in small, medium or large. Stark made everything look like it was made for him. Fran did not fit in a small and the medium made her look like a sack of spuds, gathered at the ankles and wrists like a clown.
‘So an American gun, with American bullets?’ she mused. ‘Illegal import – like an over-sized Taser.’
‘Internet shopping is a mixed blessing,’ agreed Marcus.
And the dark web was a curse. Stark rewound the footage and pressed play.
It was colour CCTV, reasonable quality, taken from the camera up in the corner of the showroom. A salesman stood talking with a man and woman. They all looked around as a figure entered. The newcomer wore a black motorcycle helmet and leathers, and was holding a pistol. He raised his arm to aim it at the salesman.
The two customers ducked, falling to the floor and scrambling desperately behind the car they’d just been admiring.
The biker ignored them, following the salesman as he backed up against one of his cars, arms out, pleading.
The biker flipped up the front of the helmet, which was like the ones worn by cops and bike couriers, with the chin being part of the visor so they could communicate. He fired, stepped over to the body and fired again downwards four times, then turned and walked away. It was over in seconds.
The two witnesses were being treated for shock in the ambulance outside. Fran would need to speak with them before shock, shame and horror twisted their memories, but the paramedics would have to clear them first.
Stark rewound and played it again and paused as the killer turned to leave, visor still up, glancing into the camera. The beard was gone but there was no mistaking him. ‘Kirsch.’
‘Doesn’t seem to care that we know.’
‘He wanted the victim to know,’ said Stark. ‘He’s shouting, jabbing the gun in punctuation before he shoots.’ He plucked a business card from the shiny dispenser on the shiny desk, and held it out.
Fran stared at the name. ‘Wait a minute … James Rawlings?’
‘The kid who’d bullied Kirsch at school. And who Kimberly Bates was allegedly seeing behind Kirsch’s back.’
‘R
evenge? After twenty years?’ Fran stared at the bloodied corpse as Marcus directed his people to bag it up. Was this them? Had they driven Kirsch over the edge?
‘Sarge.’ Dixon hovered in his anti-contamination gear, just his eyes visible, trying to look anywhere but at the body. ‘DI Harper’s here.’
She clicked her tongue in irritation. ‘Anything else I need to see?’ she asked Marcus.
Marcus’s eyes wrinkled. Fran could tell he was smiling with amusement, as he so often did at her impatience. ‘I’ll call you when I’m back in my evil laboratory.’
Stark was still staring at Kirsch on screen. ‘He doesn’t care that we know who he is, but he waited till dark again. The gear and blacked-out bike help him come and go. And he went, into the night …’
Fran had reached the same conclusion. ‘He’s not finished.’
69
Harper was good at winning trust, better than Fran, but the witnesses proved to be every bit as shaken up and useless as she’d feared. They had not seen the killer’s face and disagreed about what he’d said. The girl said he’d bellowed out a name, the victim’s, she assumed, and then something like, I’ve come for you. You can’t hurt me. Her boyfriend agreed the killer shouted something on arrival but wasn’t sure what, and thought the killer had added something like, Remember me? or I remember you. Their recollection would grow more certain or less, as the fear faded, but the whole truth was already lost.
Fran kept Stark out of Harper’s way, then volunteered to get back to the office to begin putting together a timeline, and took Stark with her.
Nothing had been said of Groombridge’s deal on the way, and nothing was said on the way back. She’d glanced at Stark from time to time but he had nothing to offer. What was done was done. Mutual congratulations were hardly appropriate. He was a good choice for DS, inevitable really, there was little use denying it. But DS to her DI? Assuming she passed her sodding exam. He’d ace his, like he had the national investigators’ exam. Much as she didn’t want to be an inspector, the ignominy of sharing rank with Stark should be incentive enough to panic her into revision.
At least she’d get a new car. She sniffed, certain that whoever had booked this shitheap out before her had been smoking in it. One thing for sure, she wouldn’t let Stark drive her around, whatever the convention.
‘Constable Butler’s death was the trigger,’ said Stark suddenly. ‘Up until that point he was still trying to prove his innocence.’
‘Of killing the Chases and Carlton Savage, perhaps,’ said Fran. ‘But what about Kimberly Bates?’
Stark nodded, conceding the point. ‘He escaped justice, but not persecution; press and police. And with a bit of help from Clive Tilly, we’ve tipped him over the edge.’
‘He had the gun, the Taser and an unregistered black motorbike hidden away. Maybe we turned up the heat, but he’s been simmering a long time.’
Harper made a statement from the scene. An employee had already told them Rawlings was twice divorced and estranged from three children, but that didn’t stop Harper ladling on the syrup. Good TV. More importantly, a chance for Fran to get the ball rolling without his interference; though it soon became apparent they had little more to go on than before. Traffic cameras had the bike coming and going, but again lost it within half a mile of the scene. If Kirsch had been simmering for a long while, perhaps he’d planned his route to avoid detection, made practice runs, even. So Stark found himself staring at CCTV from near the showroom going back days, with no success. At midnight Fran enforced a shift change and Stark went home with nothing to show for his efforts but a headache and a belly full of bad coffee and cold pizza, none of which settled well as he installed himself on the sofa. Other issues churned his stomach too.
The long-feared reorientation of the Murder Investigation Team had finally descended, and Stark’s would not be the only discomfort. A friend was shipping out into harm’s way. An enemy with Stark in her sights had suddenly ceased hostilities. And all this while a known killer was freely pursuing a murderous vendetta twenty years in the making. Because they couldn’t find him. Because they kicked over his rock with their suspicions, and worse … The fact that Stark still hadn’t told Fran about Harper’s whispered threat to Kirsch gnawed at him too.
A day with nothing left up its sleeves. What the hell would tomorrow have in store?
One blink and five hours later, his phone woke him to say.
Unknown number.
He didn’t know why he answered it. If it was Kelly, now was not a good time. If it was a cold caller, he was going to say something very rude indeed.
It was neither.
‘This had better be good,’ snapped Fran, despite her drowse, and ignoring the number of times she’d woken him with calls.
‘Where are you?’ asked Stark.
‘Don’t take the piss.’
‘How soon can you get here?’
She could almost hear him grinning. ‘I’m warning you.’
‘I just got a call from Denise Albright.’
Fran didn’t ask if this was some conquest of his because she didn’t believe Stark was crazy enough to wake her with news of his so-called love life. ‘Who?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘I can feel it lulling me back to sleep already.’
‘She lives next door to the old boarded-up house Simon Kirsch grew up in. I told you about her.’
‘You know my brain shuts down when you talk, right?’
‘She was just letting the dog out,’ Stark continued doggedly, ‘and noticed the back gate and door of the Kirsch house are open.’
Fran sat up in bed, wincing as the night-before’s hastily consumed wine took its toll on the morning-after skull. ‘But it’s still dark.’
‘When a dog’s gotta pee …’
She blinked at the blurry numbers on her clock. ‘At … six in the morning?’
‘And justice never sleeps, I’m often told.’
‘I hate you.’
‘I hear that a lot too.’
‘All right,’ she sighed. ‘I’m on my way.’ The shape in the covers beside her groaned loudly in protest and pulled the pillow over its head.
The silence coming down the line from Stark took on a loaded quality. Fran swore, and rang off.
‘How is it possible for you to look even more tired now than when I sent you home to sleep?’ asked Fran, as they sat in the car awaiting the all-clear.
Stark had already let uniform know. This was their show. Specialist Firearms Officers had conducted a plain-clothes drive by and seeing no light from within, had closed the cordon cautiously, edged up, cut the front door padlock and barrelled in as noisily as they could, with more at the rear. All clear. Nobody home, and no body to add to the tally. Another training day. But whatever they’d found was sufficient for SOCO to be called.
Harper turned up in time to be told Kirsch was not there.
‘Another waste of time?’ he’d announced impatiently and stalked off talking on his phone as SOCO arrived and went in.
A short while later a crime scene manager Stark didn’t know emerged and beckoned all three of them inside with a solemn expression on her face.
The house was dim, the early-morning light barely creeping through the perforated metal shutters. The windows inside were dusty. Everything was dusty. The house was stripped bare, carpet, lights, boiler, pipes and radiators. The squatters had been thorough. She showed them footprints on the bare boards, fresh mud. ‘Size twelve bootprints, heavy tread, army style. We’re taking a cast outside. Latch and bolt on the back gate were oiled. And the padlock on the rear door shutter doesn’t match the others,’ she said, holding out a heavy combination in an evidence bag.
It was identical to the one on Kirsch’s gym locker. Stark cursed silently, berating himself for not checking three days ago … but the back door was in a side return, sideways to the back fence.
‘Nothing much upstairs,’ she said, giving Harper an odd sideways glanc
e. ‘The real interest is here …’ She showed them the cupboard under the stairs, floored with an ancient piece of cracked linoleum too wretched even for the squatters to take. She gripped its curling edge and slid it out into the hallway. On first glance the exposed floor looked innocuous enough but then Stark noticed a knot-hole, and hinges. Slipping his gloved finger into the hole, he lifted a trapdoor. Stairs led into the darkness. The CSM handed him a torch. ‘Careful as you go. Not much headroom.’
The wooden stairs creaked alarmingly. The air inside seemed musty, but with a familiar, metallic tang that triggered something in Stark’s memory. There was a workbench with a PC, printer and modem. Someone had been paying for power and data to a dead house. No prizes for guessing who. There was a camera on a nearby shelf, a digital SLR with a long lens. There were tools too, a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters, a stack of American gun enthusiast magazines and …
Stark suddenly placed the smell – gun grease. The familiar scent of stripping down, cleaning, lubricating and reassembling; meticulous, repetitive, reassuring. The smell and fine grey residue stayed ingrained in the lines of your fingerprints and nails. This gun-cleaning set looked freshly used. And there were boxes of ammunition. Stark picked one up. Point four-five-four, three-hundred-grain; the same as the bullets pulled out of Clive Tilly, and probably James Rawlings.
But that wasn’t the most disturbing thing …
Printouts adorned the wall above the workbench – news and historical accounts – Dunblane, Columbine and Austin, Texas. Spree killings. There was a glossy picture of Charles Whitman. And a centrefold ad for a sniper rifle removed from one of the magazines.
‘Oh crap …’ said Stark, picking up a larger box of ammunition and showing it to the others. ‘Rifle rounds … Subsonics.’
Fran looked at him.
‘For additional quiet, when used with a suppressor,’ he explained.
Another blank stare.
Stark pointed to the ad – Order your Nemesis Vanquish breakdown sniper rifle with silencer and receive this robust waterproof case free! ‘Quiet bullets with a quiet rifle. Not good.’
Between the Crosses (Joseph Stark) Page 31