A car came roaring up to the lights, swerved around him, and drew level, on the wrong side of the road. Darryl saw it was Morris Cartwright driving. He was a thin man in his late twenties, with lank greasy hair and a grimy virility. He was employed by Darryl’s father on their farm. Morris’s windows were open, and he made a sign for Darryl to wind his down, which, reluctantly, he did.
‘Alright office boy?’ he grinned. His gums showed pink and wet above a line of yellowing teeth. Morris was well known in the surrounding villages. He had a dodgy past, but never seemed to have any trouble finding a woman – not that he was known for his high standards.
‘Evening,’ said Darryl, looking back pleadingly at the traffic lights, which remained red.
Morris tipped his head towards the pub car park, and the two young girls. The dark-haired one was bending into the mini cab to pay the driver. Her short jacket had ridden up, revealing taut honey-coloured skin and a black Chinese symbol tattoo at the base of her spine. Her blonde friend was waiting patiently to one side, and she noticed Morris staring.
‘You want my fucking autograph?’ she snapped.
‘Nah. I was just admiring your friend’s tattoo. What does it say?’ he asked as the mini cab pulled away. The dark-haired girl turned her attention to Morris , and gave him the once over, clocking him as a loser.
‘It’s the Chinese word for peace,’ she said.
‘That’s nice. I like having something to read when I’m in the shitter!’ said Morris, thrusting his hips up and down at the steering wheel and sticking out his tongue. The lights turned green, and he roared away with a crazy laugh and screech of tyres.
Darryl was left staring at the two girls.
‘What are you looking at? Fucking loser,’ snapped the dark-haired one, and stalked off to the pub entrance. The blonde raised her middle finger at him and followed.
Darryl’s face was burning as a horn sounded from behind, making him jump. A white van pulled out and roared past, muffled shouts echoing as the tail lights vanished around a corner into the trees.
Then the traffic lights turned back to red.
The road stretched away dark in both directions, but Darryl chose to wait. He tilted the rear-view mirror and regarded his face which was pale, pudgy, a little piggy-eyed, and topped with mousy hair. It didn’t feel like it belonged to him. The real him; the exciting virile young man was deep inside this ordinary loser. He thought of the dark-haired girl again: she had a harsh beauty, but her figure was hot.
* * *
Darryl had asked his father once why he employed Morris. This had been a few years back, when Darryl had also been working on the farm. Morris was constantly in trouble with the police, and had just been bailed after forcing himself on several of the young Polish women picking strawberries on the top field.
‘He’s a good lad really, and a hard worker. And a bloody good milker,’ his father had replied bluntly. ‘You could take a leaf out of his book.’
‘But he tried to rape those girls!’
‘It wasn’t like that, Darryl. He’s just being a lad! And young lads make mistakes.’
It hurt how his father seemed to admire Morris for his strength and masculinity. And how he regarded him in comparison as a disappointment.
* * *
Darryl saw that the road and car park were now empty. The lights went green, and he put the car in gear and pulled away. The last part of his journey was along dark, winding country lanes. The sky was clear for the first time in days, and the moon striking the snow on the surrounding fields was dazzling. He flicked off his headlights and slowed, enjoying the view. He passed two houses, the windows dark, and then banked down a steep hill which curved to the left. He slowed when he reached a large set of iron gates. They opened automatically, swinging inwards as snow started to fall again. He drove down the gravel driveway, past an ornamental pond, and the large farmhouse, its windows glowing invitingly, and he pulled in under the plastic roof of the carport.
He froze when he saw Morris’s car parked behind his mother’s Jaguar, and his father’s large mud-spattered 4 × 4. Darryl locked his car and went to the back door. As he opened it, there was a volley of barks. He went through to the boot room and a huge white dog with pale black spots came bounding up.
‘Hey, Grendel,’ he said as the dog began to lick at his hand. She was a Dalmatian crossed with a Staffordshire Terrier, which gave her height and power as well as a wide face and jaw. Her watery blue eyes had a blankness, like they were made of glass.
A toilet flushed behind an adjoining door, and his mother emerged. She was a short round woman with a bob of hair dyed a little too dark for her advancing years. Her eyes were bloodshot.
‘Good day at work?’ she chirruped as Darryl took off his shoes and placed them by the wall. They were neat and polished next to the row of muddy boots.
‘Why is Morris here?’ he said.
‘Farm business,’ she said with a shrug, skirting warily around Grendel and moving into the large messy kitchen. Raucous laughter came from behind the closed door leading off the kitchen to the farm office.
‘You want your tea?’ she asked, opening the cutlery drawer.
‘Yeah, I’m starving,’ he said, as Grendel went to her bowl and began to drink, the ID disc on her collar clinking against the metal.
The door from the office opened and Darryl’s father, John, emerged with Morris. They were both laughing.
‘Here, Mary, give Morris the rest of that pie,’ said John, giving Darryl no more than a glance. He was a tall, broad man with a weather-beaten face and a full head of pure white hair. Darryl looked to his mother but she was already taking the plate of steaming shepherd’s pie from the Aga. ‘Morris could do with a good feed, he’s been working up on Colin Harper’s land all day,’ added John.
Morris gave him a dirty gummy grin and hitched up his jeans over his skinny hips. ‘And Mrs Harper don’t feed us like you do.’
‘Ah well, she has other qualities,’ said John with a wink, and they both laughed again.
‘That’s my dinner,’ said Darryl in a small voice.
‘You’ve been sat on your fat little arse all day. Morris works the land on four farms,’ said John, fixing him with cold blue eyes.
‘I’ll put this on the table for you, Morris,’ said Mary. Darryl looked to his mother, but she avoided his gaze, and carried the steaming plate through the door to the dining room.
‘Aww. Look at that chubby little face,’ said Morris, moving to Darryl and gripping his cheeks in his hand.
‘Like his mother,’ muttered John, following Mary through to the dining room.
Morris kept his grip on Darryl’s face. ‘Tweek,’ he grinned. ‘Tweeek!’ Darryl panicked and tried to loosen Morris’s hand, but his grip was strong. ‘My brother used to do this to me, we called it a Tweek. You grip the cheeks, and look, your little pink tongue pops out. There it is!’
‘Come on, Morris, it’s getting cold!’ shouted John from the dining room.
‘On my way, John,’ he shouted. He turned back to Darryl, where his glistening tongue poked out between his teeth. ‘Then he’d make me taste his finger…’ he added touching the tip of his grimy index finger on Darryl’s tongue. He leaned in, and Darryl could smell his rancid breath as he whispered, ‘Can you taste that? It’s been up my arse—’
Grendel turned from where she had been drinking, and lunged at Morris, sinking her teeth into his left calf. Morris yelled and let go. Darryl fell against the counter, spitting into the sink and rubbing at his mouth. John came back into the kitchen at the sound of Morris’s shouts.
‘Darryl! Get that bloody dog off him, now!’ he yelled. But Grendel held on fast, her blank eyes looking up at Morris. ‘Darryl, call her off!’
‘Grendel, down girl, down,’ said Darryl. She let go of his leg and started to bark. Morris yelled and clutched at his trouser leg. Blood was soaking through the material.
‘Take that fucking animal out, and Mary, get yourself
in here and find Morris some antiseptic, quickly!’ said John.
Darryl dragged the barking Grendel out to the boot room, and the moment he closed the door she calmed down. He heard through the door his father shouting at his mother. He went to the coats hanging on the wall, and took a little dog treat from one of the pockets and gave it to Grendel. She swallowed it down whole and barked for another.
‘Shush, shush. You’re a good girl, Grendel,’ he said, giving her another treat. He stroked her large white head and she looked up with her blank eyes, licking his hand with her rough tongue.
‘You watch out for Morris. He’s a bad man. You be careful.’
Chapter Twelve
Erika left Isaac’s house just before nine o’clock. The air was clear but very cold and she sat inside her car for a few minutes, waiting for the heater to kick in. She had been intending to go home, had promised Isaac that she would go straight home and get a good night’s sleep, but the idea of speaking to Sparks came back to her. She’d heard him talking, once, about a new place he and his wife had bought in Greenwich, and Greenwich was close to Blackheath.
She looked back to Isaac’s house and saw him watching her from his window, making sure she got home safely. She started her engine and gave him a wave as she drove off. Once around the corner, she pulled over and made a call to control at Bromley Police Station. When she came off the phone, she eyed the clock on the dashboard.
‘Nothing to lose,’ she said as she started the engine and pulled away again.
* * *
Superintendent Sparks lived in a shabby house in an up-and-coming area. She parked at the end of his road and walked the hundred yards to his house. As she approached the front gate, she could see the front room was empty. A light was on, just a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. There was a ladder resting against one wall, where a block of light blue had been painted over the beige wall, and a tray of paint with a roller sat at the base of the ladder. Erika walked up the small front path, past the glare spilling out from the bay window and into the shadows by the front door. The hall light was off, and as she raised her hand to ring the bell, she heard shouting from inside.
‘He’s long gone… He wasn’t going to stay around, was he?’ cried a female voice.
‘So you did it. You admit it?’ came a male voice. Sparks.
‘Yes! I DID IT, and it was GREAT!’
‘You are such a cliché,’ he shouted.
‘I’m a WHAT?’
‘A CLICHÉ! A painter and decorator!’
‘So what? He made me feel alive! Having a fancy degree in criminology doesn’t mean you know how to fuck! He fucked me like a proper man!’ The woman’s voice was cracking with hysteria.
Erika winced, but she was transfixed. The voices dropped to a murmur and she strained to hear.
‘How much have you had?’ said Sparks.
‘How much sex have I had?’ she shouted. ‘LOADS! In our bed. IN YOUR BED!’
‘Why is this bottle empty?’
‘What? I’m not suicidal. Far from it!’
‘You only got this new prescription last week,’ said Sparks. His voice sounded broken.
‘I’m not sorry. Do you HEAR ME! I’M NOT SORRY! I DON’T LOVE YOU ANY MORE, ANDY.’
There was silence. It was the first time that Erika had heard Sparks’s first name. She knew she had to go, but then there was a huge crash and a tinkling of glass. The front door opened.
‘Crazy bitch!’ Sparks shouted over his shoulder. He turned and stopped, staring at Erika. He wore jeans and a jumper, and a black leather jacket. The left shoulder was splashed with what looked like milk. A small dark-haired woman lurched up the hall behind him. Her eyes were unfocused and her hair in disarray. She held a bag of flour and threw it at him, but it missed and exploded against the wall.
‘Who the hell is that scrawny bitch?’ she said, pointing at Erika, who was backing away to the front gate. ‘Yeah, go on, you screw HER!’
The woman rushed at Sparks and gave him a shove outside, and the door was slammed shut behind him. There was a scrabbling as the locks were turned and the chain put on.
Sparks stalked past Erika, and out onto the street.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked, following him, the sheen of milk on the back of his jacket glistening under the orange from the streetlights and dripping off the hem.
‘What the hell are you doing at my house?’ he said, still walking.
‘I came about the case, the case you’ve been working on.’
‘And you think this is a good time?’
‘No, I don’t. I didn’t know you were having…’
He stopped dead, and turned. Erika almost crashed into him.
‘This must be funny for you, Erika. Is it? Having a good laugh?’
‘No. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.’ She rummaged in her bag and pulled out some face wipes, indicating the milk as she handed them to him.
He took them and tried to wipe at his shoulder with his opposite hand, but he couldn’t reach. Erika took another out of the packet, and was surprised when he let her wipe the milk away.
‘She’s had problems for years… That was the alcohol. Not her,’ he said. Under the streetlights he looked like a ghoul. His eyes were etched with deep circles and his cheeks hollow. Erika kept on scrubbing at the base of his leather jacket. ‘Do you understand? She’s ill.’
His jacket was now clean. Erika bunched up the wet wipes and nodded. ‘I understand.’
Headlights appeared round the corner and a car moved slowly past. Sparks turned away from its glare. When it had passed, he turned back to her.
‘Why did you come to my house?’
‘It’s about the Lacey Greene murder case.’
‘What?’
‘The girl who was found in the dumpster, near New Cross.’
‘Melanie has arrested someone for that, a dosser off the street. Found with her wallet; we have two witnesses…’
‘Yes, but I’ve found another case, where there are similarities, well not just similarities. The method of killing is exactly the same…’ She rummaged in her bag and pulled out the file. ‘I’m serious. Look, can we do this somewhere else?’He looked at her for a long moment.
‘Please. I just want to give you the information so the case can be solved.’
‘There’s a pub at the end of the road. You’re buying,’ he said. He turned and walked away.
Erika followed, convinced he needed an excuse to have a drink more than he wanted to talk to her.
Chapter Thirteen
The pub was small and cosy, with tatty furniture, and horse brasses on the dark walls. They found a quiet corner, away from a darts match and the big screen showing sports. Erika bought them each a pint of lager, and she was surprised when Sparks listened to what she had to say.
When she’d finished, he sifted through the report in front of him on the polished table, taking care to mask the crime scene photos when a large bloke from the darts team lumbered past to the toilets.
‘The first thing we need to do is go back and confirm where Steven Pearson was when Janelle Robinson went missing,’ said Erika. ‘We need to rule him out, but as I said, I don’t think he was capable of a planned abduction. I’d like to see all of Lacey’s phone records, social media—’
‘Hang on, hang on. Melanie has been assigned as SIO on this. I won’t replace her. She’s worked hard, and she’s a bloody good copper. I agreed to have a drink and listen,’ he said, indicating the last few inches of his pint.
‘Okay. I’d like to assist. Be involved as an advisor. You know I have experience with cases like these.’
Sparks sat back and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Don’t you have any pride?’ he asked.
‘I’ve ballsed up a lot, and I’m stuck in the backwaters. I care only about rank when it means I can get things done.’ She downed the second half of her lager in one.
Sparks grinned. It was an odd sight. He had small crooked teeth which ga
ve his face a flash of childish mischief.
‘Bollocks!’ he said, not unkindly. ‘You could have killed me when I was promoted over you.’
‘Yeah. I could have.’
Sparks downed the rest of his pint, then sat back crossing his hands over his stomach. ‘I’m not sure it’s worth it…’
‘I’ll make sure it’s worth it. I will work with Melanie. I’ll keep my head down…’
He shook his head. ‘I’m talking about the rank. Superintendent. I’m not sure it’s worth it. I’m supervising eighteen cases right now. Top brass is cutting everything to the bone, and everything we do is public property.’
‘But we’re public servants…’
‘Servants? Don’t give me that shit!’ he said, slamming his hand down on the table. ‘You know the score. We have to get things done, and it’s not all rosy. We have to lean on people. We have to, or the job won’t get done, but now every scumbag out there has a mobile phone with a camera. Stuff gets posted online and then every armchair critic weighs in. Last month, one of my officers was attacked by a guy during a stop and search. This young guy had a kilo of heroin in his glove compartment. He hits my officer with a crowbar, breaking his arm, then goes to drive away, forgetting my officer with the broken arm has his keys. Realising he’s trapped, the young guy starts filming my officer as he saws open the front window with a cutting tool, and drags him out. The video of just that part gets uploaded to YouTube, and I’ve got top brass on my arse saying people online are posting messages to complain about police brutality! My officer is a good lad, always follows things to the letter, but his true account of what happened isn’t as important as the grainy mobile phone footage on YouTube! Do you know what the Assistant Commissioner said?’
Sparks was animated now, his fists clenched.
‘I can guess it wasn’t helpful?’ said Erika.
‘You’re fucking right it wasn’t helpful. “The video has been liked and commented on by fifty thousand people, and shared thousands of times on Twitter,’’’ he said, mimicking the Assistant Commissioner’s voice in falsetto. ‘What kind of a world do we live in where ordinary Joes, at home and one stop away from whacking off to porn, or shopping for shoes, are forming public opinion? Worse still, directing the opinion of our superiors! Distorting reality!’
Last Breath Page 5