LOOT & I'M WITH THE BAND: The DCS Palmer and the Serial Murder Squad series by B.L.Faulkner. Cases 5 & 6 (DCS Palmer and the Serial Murder Squad cases Book 3)

by Barry Faulkner

  ‘Bit of a quandary for me. Should I follow her? Probably not, as the police would have sealed off that road further down. So there I was, tired, hungry, and now sure that she would be arrested and the gold would be found and go to the Treasury. But no! Suddenly there’s a red glow in the distance down the lane; and then guess whose car comes from that direction straight past me, eh? Your car. I assume you’d been waiting for her?’

  It was pointless for Sylvia to further deny anything.

  ‘No, not really. I was parked in a layby so I could keep an eye on what was happening. Like you, I was trying to work out a plan to get the gold when the police raid happened. I saw Angela’s car coming towards me in the gloom, no lights, so I guessed she’d got away with the gold; and like you, I thought the lane would have been blocked further down by the police at the main road. So I pulled out as she came round a bend to stop her, but she was going too fast, lost it on the gravel when she put the brakes on, and went into the deep ditch.’

  ‘So, you did what? Caved in her head, took the gold, and set the car on fire with her inside?’

  ‘No, no…’

  Sylvia Fenn needed a solid explanation; Leyton couldn’t possibly know what really happened in the lane. She could still save this situation.

  ‘No, she was trapped inside and the tank had split. I tried, but couldn’t get her out. So I got as much gold as I could, and knowing the police would see the flames I drove off the other way… Why don’t we split it? Nobody will know.’

  ‘Split it between us, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, then go our separate ways. There’s enough for two.’

  ‘There is indeed. But why should I split my gold with you? Oh no, that’s not going to happen.’

  She patted one of the bags like a beloved pet.

  ‘It’s all going home with mummy. All of it.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Sylvia was thinking of Finlay’s money hidden upstairs; time to cut her losses.

  ‘Okay, just take it and go.’

  ‘But what about you?’

  ‘I said I don’t want it. Just go – you won’t hear from me again, I promise you that.’

  ‘Oh, I can promise you that I won’t hear from you again as well. It’s time to say goodbye’.

  Sylvia felt a surge of relief as Margaret Leyton stood and smiled down at her. From close quarters, the discharge from both barrels of the shotgun left a large cavity in Sylvia Fenn’s chest where her heart and lungs had previously lived.

  Chapter 42

  ‘So, who is the missing link then?’

  Mrs P. wiped round the kitchen bowl in the Palmers’ kitchen sink, as Palmer put away the last plate and hung the wiping-up cloth over the oven handle . She feigned interest in his present case as she did with them all, but after forty years of marriage to Palmer there wasn’t a lot left in the serial killer world that she – and he – hadn’t seen before.

  ‘You’ve missed a fork.’

  She pointed to a solitary fork, waiting in the bowl to be dried. It was a long-standing ritual in their house that she did the washing-up and he did the wiping up. Palmer retrieved the cloth and finished the job.

  ‘No idea. It’s got to be somebody on the edge of all this who’s kept a damn good low profile. We will find him – or her. We always do sooner or later.’

  ‘Sooner, I hope. You’ve got enough bodies piling up already.’

  Palmer had made sure he’d got home for his evening meal that day, as he’d seen the prepared moussaka in the fridge when he took out the milk for his bran flakes breakfast. Mrs P.’s moussaka was – like most of her home-cooked meals – well worth making the effort for; and after missing out on toad in the hole, he was determined the moussaka wouldn’t get away.

  Mrs P. gave the kitchen a once-over, seemed satisfied, and looked at the clock.

  ‘Right, I’m off to see Benji; he’s out tomorrow, so I said I’d pop into his place, put the central heating on low, and take him in some clean clothes. And while I remember, if you’re home for tea tomorrow bring in a take-away; he’s out at five and I said I’d pick him up.’

  ‘Oh, how very neighbourly of you,’ Palmer said sarcastically. ‘I seem to remember when I was discharged from hospital with my leg and shoulder in plaster I had to get the bus home.’

  ‘Justin, he’s had a new hip; he can’t walk far yet, and he can’t put any weight on it. You only had half your leg in plaster – and anyway, you discharged yourself without telling us so how could we have picked you up?’

  ‘I would have told you, if you or any of my wonderful family had bothered to visit the day before.’

  ‘You were only in for three days, and you told us not to visit. You were very firm that you didn’t want any visitors; you said you wanted a peaceful few days. So that’s what you got. Anyway, I came the first day and all you said was ‘did Barcelona win?’ and then went back to sleep.’

  Palmer thought silence the best option. His reasons for being home were, in truth, twofold: one, Mrs P.’s moussaka; and two, Barcelona versus Real Madrid on Sky, the first of the annual ‘El Clasico’ matches. He was thanking his lucky stars he wasn’t expected to visit Benji too, or he might have had to feign some illness and insist she went alone. After his family, Palmer’s loyalty list was Daisy the dog, Barcelona, Crystal Palace, and then his job; and sometimes he thought maybe Daisy the dog should top the list anyway.

  Mrs P. disappeared and returned a few minutes later in a winter coat, outdoor shoes and a headscarf.

  ‘Right then, if you get anything from the fridge make sure you close the door properly; and take Daisy round the block about nine o’clock. Poop bags are in the cupboard under the sink.’

  A quick peck on the cheek, and she was gone. Palmer took a bottle of Stowfield cider from the fridge, making sure the door was shut afterwards, and nearly tripped over Daisy, who had seen Mrs P. leave and knew Palmer was an easy touch for a ‘chewy’.

  ‘Oh, I wonder what you are after you crafty old thing.’

  He gave her a pat and a ‘chewy’ from the cupboard above the worktop, and together they padded into the lounge and flopped onto the sofa, where Palmer rescued the remote control from down the side of the cushion and flicked on Sky Sports.

  He settled back, kicked off his slippers and farted loudly – something he didn’t dare do if Mrs P. was around. The teams were coming out, the sofa was very comfortable, the cider was going down a treat. And the telephone was ringing.

  Chapter 43

  Gheeta and Palmer moved to the side of the Fenn front garden path and onto the unkempt small flower bed, as Sylvia Fenn’s body bag was carried by two white suited forensic officers past them on a stretcher to the waiting morgue van.

  ‘At least it’s not a red plastic bag guv,’ Gheeta said, catching his eye as it passed them. They made their way into the hall of the house which was a hive of activity, with SOCO and fingertip search teams going about their work. They put on shoe protectors and met Reg Frome as he came down the narrow stairs. Palmer shook his outstretched hand.

  ‘You know Reg, the one constant in these murders is that you are always at the scene. Hope you’ve got alibis, ‘cause we might try and pin them on you if we don’t get a break soon; not having much luck so far. What have you got for me then?’

  Frome laughed.

  ‘Not a lot, Justin. Double-barrelled shot gun wound, weapon discharged close to the chest. Seems she was in a seated position against the wall in the kitchen. No motive other than murder. Doesn’t appear to be anything taken but that’s your job, not mine. We’re dusting the place for prints to run through the system, and guess what.’

  ‘There aren’t any?’

  ‘Don’t know yet, but there are definitely footprints around the back door. Size six.’

  ‘What? Same shoes as before?’

  ‘No, unfortunately – these are shoes, not trainers. Same size though.’

  ‘Who rang it in?’

  ‘Newspaper boy was delivering one of
those free papers along the street and noticed there was a flood of water coming out under the front door. He couldn’t get an answer, so he went round the back and found the body. He’s quite shook up, poor lad; they’ve got a WPC with him and she’ll get a statement when he gets over the shock. The water was coming from the bath; the lady was obviously running a bath when she was interrupted and left the tap on.’

  He slipped off his shoe protectors.

  ‘Right then, I’ve been on since six this morning so I’m off home to bed. The rest of my team will finish up here tonight, and I’ll get the results emailed to you asap tomorrow.’

  They bade him goodnight and turned their attention to the house.

  ‘Well, where do we start sir? And what are we looking for?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Sergeant; no idea at all. All we can say is that she was the wife of John Fenn who’s been bumped off, and now she has too. Why? I don’t know. Perhaps she knew too much and whoever is after this gold had to shut her up?’

  An officer came to the top of the stairs and called down.

  ‘I think you ought to come and have a look at this, sir.’

  Palmer’s heart sank.

  ‘Not another body I hope.’

  He turned to Gheeta.

  ‘You go, Sergeant. My sciatica is playing up, and those stairs look a bit steep.’

  Gheeta laughed and climbed the stairs. A young search officer checking the drawers on a small telephone table in the hall turned to watch her perfect backside as she ascended the stairs. Palmer tapped him on the shoulder and gave him his stone-cold stare.

  ‘Don’t even think about it sonny, or you’ll be doing the Brick Lane night beat for the next ten years.’

  The officer returned quickly to his task. Gheeta was gone from view for hardly a minute when she reappeared at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Guess what, sir.’

  ‘Don’t tell me… gold bars?’

  ‘No, but close. Two hundred grand in used twenties.’

  Chapter 44

  The team room was busy. It was ten o’clock the next day, and Palmer had called in all his regular team officers who were available off shift or could be pinched from other duties. They stood around, some looking at the progress chart, some drinking machine coffee from plastic cups and trying to get comfortable on hard wooden chairs; others kept on from the night shift stifled yawns, and hoped they’d get out on the road and clear up whatever they were going to be asked to do quickly and get home for some sleep.

  Palmer brought them to order by slapping a clipboard onto a desk top.

  ‘Right lads, sorry if calling you in has buggered up any plans, but I really want to get a handle on this case; and I know your wonderful expertise in crime-solving will help me get it.’

  He smiled sarcastically at the barrage of raspberries and loud coughs that greeted this remark and continued.

  ‘DS Singh has given you all a quick rundown on what’s been going on, and to be honest we’ve not got any solid leads as to who is behind these murders. You’ve been split into teams of four, and this is the work load for each team. Team one?’

  Hands were raised.

  ‘Right, you do the house to house on last night’s victim’s street; if you don’t get an answer make a note so we can go back later. Team two?’

  Different hands were raised,

  ‘You lot visit every shop and office on roads that lead into that street and get a look at any CCTV from last night, flag up anything that doesn’t look right; and especially look for a Jaguar heading towards or from the street.

  ‘Team three, you’re all CID, so I want pressure put on your snouts. I want to know if there’s any buzz about gold bullion, about some of the Brinks-Mat stuff surfacing; see who’s suddenly got a bit active in that market – lean on the fences, see if anybody’s getting quotes on shifting a few kilos.

  ‘Right lads and lasses, that’s it; pass back any leads, any new information, in fact anything – no matter how small – to DS Singh on your mobiles, so we can log it on the computer and send up a daily report to the top floor of more than half a page.’

  A distinct murmur went round the room at the mention of ‘daily report’ and faces smiled. Palmer knew exactly what all that was about.

  ‘Alright, alright, calm down. Yes, I know, I’m doing – or should I say, Sergeant Singh is doing for me departmental daily reports, and you all know my thoughts on them. But I’ve been hauled over the coals about them and their absolute importance to the force. Gives the top floor something to do all day,’

  Agreeable laughter greeted that sarcastic aside.

  ‘So, we need all the information you can get so upstairs can see how hard we work and come to their senses, so we don’t have to spend important investigation time on writing flipping daily reports! Right, off you go – and be careful; five dead already, so don’t you be the sixth.’

  Wooden chair legs scraped the old lino flooring as the teams stood to leave; many who’d been roused from a long overdue sleep stretched their arms above their heads and yawned before shuffling out the door, clutching their files and donning their jackets. Palmer knew that if he bothered to walk down Victoria Street in ten minutes time he’d find half of them in Costa Coffee, waking themselves up with a dose of caffeine.

  Sergeant Singh beckoned him over to the computer terminal she was working on.

  ‘I’ve got Sylvia Fenn’s phone records here, guv. GPS data says she made a call in Gloucester the same evening we were there; or at least her phone was used to make that call.’

  ‘Did she now? A call to where?’

  He slipped off his jacket and pulled up a chair beside her.

  ‘Don’t know where guv, but we know who to.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Rathbone.’

  Palmer sat forward in his chair.

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘No, Forensics got Rathbone’s mobile from the burnt-out car and were somehow able to get her number and trace calls to and from it on her network’s log history database.’

  Palmer raised his eyebrows and looked directly at Singh.

  ‘Forensics did all that, did they?’

  She smiled, knowing she couldn’t pull the wool over his eyes.

  ‘Well… Forensics got the number; I got the data.’

  Palmer knew damn well Singh had used one of her ‘not altogether legal’ bespoke computer programmes to hack into the mobile network’s data.

  ‘You ever heard of the Data Protection Act, Sergeant?’

  Gheeta made a great show of thinking hard.

  ‘No sir, can’t say I have.’

  ‘Hmm… funny that, ‘cause neither have I.’

  He gave a wink, then rose and went over to the progress board. Gheeta followed. Palmer picked up a felt tip and drew a line connecting Angela Rathbone to Sylvia Fenn.

  ‘It’s beginning to fall into place; the pieces of the jigsaw are coming together a bit now. Looks like Rathbone and Mrs Fenn knew each other. Rathbone was in with Mooney, who was partners with Hilton, and they were both part of the Robson gang. But what’s two hundred grand doing in the bottom of Mrs Fenn’s wardrobe?’

  Claire swung road and called over.

  ‘It’s not her’s, sir – it was Finlay’s. Look at this.’

  They both crossed back to Claire, who was scrolling down her PC screen.

  ‘Reg Frome has emailed an advance Forensics report on Sylvia Fenn’s place. Seems the wardrobe had quite a few shirts, a couple of suits and two pairs of shoes in it that belonged to Finlay; got his DNA all over them, as has the money.’

  Palmer inhaled deeply.

  ‘Well I’m blowed – the bugger was shacked up with Sylvia Fenn. No wonder he wanted Mr Fenn out of the way. How did we miss that?’

  ‘Well, we didn’t have him on our radar for very long, guv – before he was incinerated. But it all fits, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It does; a classic example of thieves falling out. But that still leaves someb
ody out there that pumped two barrels into Sylvia Fenn in her kitchen.’

  He stroked his chin.

  ‘Why didn’t they take the money? The only reason is that they couldn’t have known it was there, and they’d come for one thing, and one thing only – to kill her.’

  ‘Hang on, sir.’

  Claire was reading the screen.

  ‘There are traces of gold on the kitchen table at Fenn’s.’

  ‘So that’s what the killer came for; she had the gold at the house and somebody came to get it. Things got out of hand, and bang-bang.’

  He crossed back to the progress chart and drew a line joining Sylvia Fenn to Finlay Robson.

  ‘But that doesn’t tell us who killed her.’

  ‘This might, guv.’

  Gheeta was working at another computer beside Claire. Palmer crossed back.

  ‘I’ll get dizzy going back and forth in a minute. What have you got now?’

  ‘The current English Heritage tourist brochure for Sussex.’

  ‘Very nice. Planning a holiday, are we?’

  Gheeta ignored the remark.

  ‘Sort of thing tourists pick up at their hotels or off the tourist information sites. But look closely; can you see what I can see? Guess who’s on the front page in full colour?’

  On screen was a colour photo of The Manor House, Hove – the Leyton’s abode. Standing in front with their dogs at their feet, Stanley and Margaret Leyton smiled at the camera, Stanley’s double-barrel shotgun hung over one arm. The strapline read: ‘An English MP at Home’.

  Palmer leant forward for a closer look.

  ‘I can see the Leytons at home looking very friendly. What am I missing?’

  ‘Corner of the Manor House.’

  Gheeta flicked a pointing finger to the lawn beside the house, and beyond it to where a green car was parked. It was hardly visible in the picture, so she zoomed in on it. Claire leant forward and was sure.

  ‘That’s a Jag, sir. Hundred percent sure.’