One potato… two potatoes… three potatoes, four.
Five potatoes… six potatoes… seven potatoes.
Mort.
On whispering the word mort, sounding like the word more, the French word for dead, he let his hand hover over the final, remaining potato head before deliberately removing his hand. The camera stayed focussed for a few seconds on the last head, allowing the viewer time to see clearly the police potato’s features. It was only then removed and the camera was kept running, the music gaining in strength and intensity as if rushing and tumbling; a plaintive cry that sounded emotionally close and yet seemingly at a distance. Hidden hands quickly spun the upturned, grinning mouth round through one hundred and eighty degrees. The whole of the potato’s facial demeanour was changed, the downturned mouth immediately bringing an air of sadness to match the melancholy of the music. It was returned to the work surface so that the camera could focus fully on it once more. Hopefully for him, importantly, the subtle but significant change would be noticed. Within thirty seconds he switched off the camera.
Julie sat opposite Cyril. The Italian restaurant was small and a favourite. Tomaso Wilkinson, the chef, had tried to tempt Cyril away from his usual dish but had failed. He had also observed that he was not his usual self. Resting a hand on Cyril’s shoulder he spoke quietly and sensitively. “Next time, Mr Bennett, next time.” He smiled at Julie and returned to the kitchen.
“Next time. Thanks, Tom.”
Although the conversation was not as flowing as usual there was something about the restaurant’s familiarity, its comforting aromas and ambience that brought them back time after time. Julie gave Cyril space and observed her man who seemed distant and often deep in thought. She watched him toy with and rearrange the bowl of risotto, his favourite dish, but seldom did she see him eat.
“Are you eating that or are you just going to maul it to death?” Julie reached across and tapped his hand. There was no anger, threat nor admonishment. “Still undecided about the Bentley or is it work?”
He put the fork down, removed his napkin and stood. “Do you mind if we just walk?” He held out his hand and a shallow smile cracked his lips. “Sorry…but…”
Julie was taken aback by his sudden move. “No… no, not at all.”
Cyril helped her with the shawl she had brought, paid and sent an apology to Tom. “Please tell him he will choose my meal next time.”
The light summer evening lifted Cyril’s mood as they strolled hand in hand along the edge of The Stray. Only the light breeze whispered in the sun-dappled leaves contrasting with the low rumble of the traffic.
“Four people dead, two possibly through natural causes but the fact that we know someone has access to the dead men’s phones tells us everything we want to know. We both had serious concerns regarding the two fatalities from the outset and now with the frozen bodies, it seems we’re looking for one person, someone who maybe has an axe to grind, someone who is out to seek revenge or, and this is the worst case scenario for me as a bobby, someone who is just doing it for the fun of it, the buzz of killing, the challenge.”
Cyril turned to look at Julie. “Because they can. These people are the most difficult to track down as they’ve spent time and care in the planning. History tells us that they’re usually intelligent, often scheming and underhand, possibly secretive, and without any doubt, extremely calculating in their actions. They’ve been fathers, uncles, neighbours. They’re chameleons, shadows and invisible all at the same time and to cap that, for me and my team, they’re a pain in the arse. We’ve seen that so often in the past… Neilson, Lee and then we have the so-called Yorkshire Ripper. How he managed to escape capture for so long…”
“With the advances in forensics that we have today, Cyril, he’d have been caught far sooner than he was.”
“That may well be the case. I personally don’t believe that. Human nature brings human error and you only need to miss one vital clue and that gives them the opportunity to take another life. It’s a feat to them, like climbing a mountain. Often they don’t care about themselves, they just want to see how far they can get, how many victims, how much suffering they can inflict. As I say, it’s a game.”
“What about the link; the cold and the ice? Surely the possible use of liquid nitrogen, the bodies in the freezer… That’s the route the investigation is following?” Julie sounded convinced.
“Yes,” he paused and looked around and then skyward. “Let’s not rule out the aircraft, the cocaine and our knowledge that these people knew each other before the first death. Strangely that death was of the man who seemed to bring them together in the first place. Who did what to whom? And if that’s the case, how long ago?”
“Thorndyke could have been dead well before Stephens. We know almost to the day when Claire Baldwin went missing and therefore have an approximate of her time of her death. Thorndyke’s the only one we’re unsure of. He’s the unknown in the equation. We’ve still have no idea as to when and how he died.”
They sat on a bench. The horizon was turning into warm lines of rich colours that seemed to be smudged into what became a perfect late evening sky. The sun hovered still just above the trees silhouetting the church spire in the far distance. A dog barked somewhere behind them and Julie turned to look as the owner threw a ball.
“It’s April!” Julie pronounced, grateful to break the conversation that had seemed to linger near to its conclusion moments before.
Cyril turned to see her throwing a ball for Ralph, a Great Dane. The dog’s gangly legs propelled him along in a clumsy, uncoordinated but efficient manner.
“She’s done wonders with that dog since she got it,” he said, a smile coming to his lips for the first time since leaving the restaurant. “It was such a sad case. I feel a little like Ralph; clumsy and less coordinated the older I get. Sometimes it’s as if I can’t see the wood for the trees.” He lifted Julie’s hand and kissed it. “Our killer wants to be found, why else would he send the photographs, why play the game using the dead men’s phones? Why tell us that he’s…” Cyril paused and frowned before stating what he believed to be the obvious. “A serial killer?”
The sun dipped quickly behind the trees and the sky turned a deep red. Cyril did not fail to see the prophetic irony and he laughed, leaned over and kissed Julie. “Red sky at night.”
Ralph bounded towards them, a deep bark breaking their thoughts. Julie waved towards April who immediately came jogging over.
“Evening. Hope Ralph hasn’t disturbed your quiet time.”
Cyril pulled at Ralph’s ears and rubbed his head. The dog yawned.
Cyril stood looking out of the bay window of Julie’s apartment. The streetlights still cast an orange glow as they competed with the early dawn’s growing light. He smiled thinking that slowly, this warm sodium light was being replaced by the more energy efficient LED white. He did not fail to see a metaphor for his own life and career. Progress, he knew, was an inevitable factor in the passing of time and in the changes within one’s career. It seemed only natural that his mind should turn to Wendy, his stepmother. He should call her soon. It had been a while and he had promised himself that he would maintain contact. He sipped his coffee between inhaling the menthol vapour from his electronic cigarette and his thoughts turned to the Bentley. He must also make a decision about that and his heart sank a little.
28
The relocation of the North Yorkshire Police Headquarters from Newby Wiske to Alverton Court had brought a number of local complaints, not because the police were leaving but because of the building’s pending future. It had to be said that progress and technology made demands on a modern police force, and the old hall no longer met its needs.
The replacement was deemed perfect. Until recently, the new building had looked across to the old Northallerton Prison but the demolition teams had moved in and swept away all but the listed buildings. First built in 1788, its time, like Newby Wiske, was at an end for the maintenance of law
and order.
Cyril turned off Crosby Road and into the Police Headquarters.
Within fifteen minutes he was waiting to see the Chief Constable; a mixed blessing at any time but today it was one element of his responsibility Cyril could have done without. He believed he had more important things to do. Looking around he realised quickly that the charm of the old hall had been replaced by modern-day efficiency or so they had convinced everyone. A clock is only as good as the person who winds it up, he thought. Noticing the brass plaque positioned to the side of the double doors, he stood and walked across knowing whom it commemorated:
In Memory of DS Liz Graydon who died…
Cyril brought his hand to his lips, kissed it and placed it on the plaque without reading further; it was carved in his memory, he did not need to. He had read it so often on The Police Roll of Honour Trust site. “Miss you young lady. Miss you.”
To focus his mind and try to leave the past behind, he recalled that much of the contents of Newby Wiske had gone for auction in Scotland and Cyril had been delighted to secure a Robert ‘Mouseman’ Thompson bowl, a souvenir. He had remembered seeing it on one of the many tables by the staircase on his numerous visits and had just wanted to keep something as a memento, something that brought the past into the present.
It was only upon entering the Chief Constable’s office that Cyril realised that things do not always change for the better. He stared at the desk facing him, The Eiger, as he had always called it was still there, maybe not as high but certainly it was present; a horizontal filing system of loose papers and documents secured by pebbles and rocks of differing sizes and colours. A second feeling of security embraced him, knowing that, like himself, you could not teach old dogs new tricks.
After accepting coffee but rejecting the guided tour, Cyril was soon on his way back to Harrogate. It was only then that the idea came to him. The obvious that had been staring him in the face struck him like a slap and he cursed quietly for not having noticed the connection sooner.
Within twenty minutes Cyril pulled up outside the Flying School. A quick call to control after leaving Northallerton had secured an appointment with the Chief Flying Instructor, a Bob Ryan. A large aeronautical chart of the north of England was spread out in front of Cyril and Ryan on the planning table.
“You could have used mine, you didn’t have to buy this one.”
“I’ll need to take it with me,” said Cyril. “Have you been here long?”
“It’s one of the biggest clubs in the north east and I’ve been flying in this area for years. Without blowing my own trumpet, I think I can honestly say that I know every official and unofficial landing site. I often mark out specific fields in mind when my students are working on their engine failure scenarios. A number of wealthy landowners and farmers have their own strips too, although we see a lot more using helicopters now. It’s the convenience. Many are still involved here to enjoy their fixed-wing pleasures; bit of a drug as you may well remember.”
The word made Cyril turn quickly and it did not go unnoticed. “Indeed. I see you offer customs and immigration facilities here.”
“Not wholly. I’d use Leeds Bradford if I were flying to the continent regularly but we offer a service by appointment only. Suits our members and those visiting from abroad. So to focus on your enquiry, Detective Chief Inspector…” Ryan marked the possible landing sites he knew using a red chinagraph pencil to circle the farms and the buildings. There were eight. “They’re mostly used throughout the summer. Some keep older type aircraft and hangar them on site but it varies. Mind you, I have seen aircraft on the ground in a number of unusual locations in my time. I often wonder what they’re up to.” He turned and smiled whilst raising his eyebrows.
“Microlights?” Cyril quizzed.
“No, a mixed bag. Once saw a twin engine Cessna parked on the moor. Called that in, what with people smuggling you can never be too sure.”
“Would anyone know? Can you land anywhere, the odd field, old airstrip?”
“If you know the lie of the land and have the owner’s permission, why not? Just picking a field and landing could be wrought with dangers and I’d certainly never recommend that unless the big fan at the front of the plane has decided to stop… when it does, it’s amazing how suddenly every field looks inviting.”
“If I were a qualified member of your club and I hired that Cherokee outside, would I be able to just go off and land where I liked?”
“If you’re qualified, you should know what you’re doing. We assume that you don’t want to kill yourself and so we have to trust you to fly according to your training and qualifications. The answer is yes, within reason. May I ask why you wish to know?” He paused. “Maybe I get the idea, seeing it’s the police doing the asking: aircraft, continent, smuggling, people, drugs? If it’s people, then you have to land, but for drugs you don’t. Why take risks you don’t have to take? You just have to overfly and although it’s illegal to drop anything from an aircraft, it is possible. It’s been done before and will be done again.”
It was like a sudden epiphany. “Wood for the trees, Bob, wood for the trees. The whole of North Yorkshire is a potential drop off area!”
Bob Ryan simply stared at Cyril as he rolled up the aeronautical chart. “If I can be of any further help, here’s my mobile number.”
Cyril held out his hand and Ryan shook it. “Appreciate that.”
“Before you go I’ll show you a couple of the older aircraft we have in the hangars if you’ve time and if you’re interested.”
Cyril smiled. “Wonderful.”
Ryan had read Cyril’s love of aircraft well. The two imposing corrugated hangars stood next to each other, their gaping doors open wide. The sound of an aircraft flying in the circuit droned as it climbed away, its screaming engine note reverberating against the steel hangar side. The interior appeared dark until Cyril’s eyes grew accustomed. Three people were working on a plane near the entrance, the engine cowls removed. Ryan and Cyril walked into the depths of the building and Cyril saw the two aircraft standing side by side.
“Chipmunk and Tiger Moth, both built by de Havilland,” Ryan remarked. He could immediately see the look of admiration in Cyril’s eyes as he inspected both aircraft. He watched as he ran his hand down the edge of the cockpit. “Owned by the same man, Captain for Easyjet and ex-RAF.”
Cyril walked round each plane before suddenly spotting a photograph on one of the boards which ran down the full length of the hangar. He felt a shiver of excitement move down his back as he walked towards it. This sudden move away from the aircraft to the side of the hangar appeared to surprise Ryan. He watched as Cyril stopped in front of one of the large noticeboards filled with photographs taken and displayed by club members. He followed him. Cyril tapped the aerial photograph held by three drawing pins. “The bloody beer mat!” Cyril exclaimed and Ryan laughed.
“Nope, crop art. Taken last year, I believe. A small piece of crop art in the shape of an open mouthed emoji, it’s very original. I’ve seen a few crop circles. Can you believe that I’ve even seen proposals of marriage cut into the fields in my time here. Not far from this flying club, a farmer makes a huge corn maze every year, a favourite for a pleasure flight destination.”
“He sees a face…” Cyril said out loud.
“Sorry?” Ryan looked puzzled. “Who does?”
“Something someone said to me,” Cyril answered. “Where was that located?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t take it, but I can try to find out.”
Cyril studied it looking for buildings or positional clues but the image had obviously been cropped to just show the smiling face. Removing his phone, Cyril took a picture of the photograph. “I’d be grateful if you could. To locate the position would be so useful.”
“The airfield manager can send out a message to all our present and past members to see if they took it or have any memory of its location.”
Cyril thanked Ryan and handed him a card
containing his mobile number and email address. “Anything, anything at all, I’d appreciate a call.”
Cyril returned to his car and felt for the first time that he could see a light at the end of the tunnel.
The incident room was busy when he entered. April raised a hand, a signal for his attention, and he quickly moved across the room, avoiding the occasional file left on the floor next to the tables. His hand reassuringly touched the shoulders of those working.
“We had, as you requested, linked the mobile phones of Mrs Baines and Mrs Stephens so that we can intercept specific calls made from their husbands’ missing mobiles. They’re routed directly to us saving the family any further trauma. It was prophetic, sir, to include Claire Baldwin and Thorndyke’s phones.”
Cyril smiled to himself at April’s use of vocabulary. She was becoming an invaluable member of his team. Never did he feel as though Liz would ever be replaced, but April was proving to be equally efficient, astute with a keen eye for detail.
“At 1.57pm we received this video. It was sent simultaneously to both the wives.” April clicked the mouse and Cyril dragged across a chair, put on his glasses and watched.
“Mr and Mrs Potato Head, yes! There’s more.” She paused the video briefly. “The first piece of music you can hear is part of Symphony number 3, Op 36 by Henryk Mikolaj Gorecki, and the second is a section taken from an opera. Strangely, sir, it’s a favourite of mine but I guess the way the case is going, not for much longer. It’s The Ice Maiden by Rimsky Korsakov.”
Cyril immediately turned to her, his expression revealing everything before he turned back to watch as the camera scanned the heads.
“What’s interesting, sir, is that the first piece of music was inspired after the composer read a kind of prayer, an inscription on a wall in a former Gestapo prison cell. It was written by an eighteen-year-old Polish girl. The composer suggests in his notes that there were other writings too on that wall; whereas the other prisoners all called for revenge, this girl, this teenager, asks simply for comfort and support even though she knew her fate. To be honest, it brings a lump to my throat when I listen and think about the composer’s inspiration in writing such a tragic piece. The captives were all just waiting, knowing their fate, understanding fully what was to happen to them, alive, dare I say, to the gruesome fact that soon they were all to be eliminated.”
The Third Breath Page 15