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

  ‘We did, we did!’

  Claire clicked her ‘return’ key and the large screen on the wall above her terminal showed ‘SW1Y5BJ’ superimposed on a map of the UK. The postcode homed in on the map as it increased its picture from the whole of the UK to the South, then to London, and then to its final destination.

  ‘Got you Mr Brown!’

  But then Claire’s face dropped.

  ‘Where is he?’

  Palmer squinted at the screen. He could see it was London, but where in London?

  ‘Trafalgar Square.’

  ‘Blast.’

  Gheeta slumped back into her chair.

  ‘Oh, he’s a crafty one, guv. He was texting the Facebook page using his iPhone from Trafalgar Square.’

  Palmer nodded.

  ‘Crafty bugger – but we now have a full confession from him, so print out that conversation before he realises and deletes it.’

  He sat down and thought for a moment.

  ‘Okay, look – take the LP cover and see what a police artist can do to take Brown’s face and age it thirty years, both with and without hair. Then send that out as an addition with the stop notices. I’m going to get the old original evidence box on the Maurice Jade murder sent up from Cornwall.’

  ‘You’re not happy with that one guv, are you?’

  ‘No,’ Palmer said. ‘The CCTV being conveniently off is still bugging me.’

  Peter Brown was both angry and elated; so elated that he was giggling to himself, causing passers-by to give him a wide berth as he walked down Whitehall to the bus stop. He tried to control the giggling when he noticed people were looking at him.

  That told you, Palmer… Now you know you’ve got a real opponent – a clever one. So, you didn’t think I did any of the murders, eh? All just accidents? Well, now you know they weren’t just bloody accidents… Stupid coppers… Now you know they got what they deserved and I did it… Have all the programmes running, did you? Bet you did – thought you’d trace me, eh? Thought I didn’t know all about phone traces, eh? I would have loved to see your face when Trafalgar Square came up – disappointed, I’ll bet…

  So, now you know I’m good, aren’t I? Better than you lot of stupid coppers... Did Elliott tell you I was good at IT? Did he? I can run rings round your lot, Palmer – you’ve no chance against me. Elliott is as good as dead already, and he will be in a week’s time… You might have him all surrounded in his house, but I know him… I know him, and I know something you don’t know… He’s dead in a week… I promise…

  Chapter 13

  ‘We’re winning.’

  Mrs P.’s voice from the kitchen had a happy lilt to it.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Palmer was sitting on the bottom stairs in his hall, taking off his shoes and giving Daisy the dog a cuddle at the same time, as Mrs P. was dishing up his meal in the kitchen.

  ‘By what people say when we knock at their doors. They like Benji, they think he’d be good for the district – a good independent voice on the council’

  ‘They don’t know him.’

  He threw a shoe up the hall for Daisy to fetch back, which she didn’t. She looked up at him as if to say, ‘a ball fifty yards in the park, maybe – but a shoe eight-feet up the hall? Nah.’

  ‘He comes out with us and meets them, they can talk to him. No other candidates are out.’

  ‘They’ve got more sense.’

  ‘You’ve no sense of adventure, Justin Palmer – and definitely no community spirit.’

  ‘Okay, so tell me why a bloke would want to put himself forward to be elected to a council where they’ll all be arguing, one half won’t like the other half, and probably none of them will like Benji – plus all the voters who didn’t vote for him won’t like him as well. Not exactly a win win situation, is it?’

  He pulled on his slippers and ambled into the kitchen.

  ‘What are we having? Smells good.’

  ‘Moussaka.’

  ‘Burnt cheese on the top?’

  ‘You have the most unusual tastes, Justin. Yes, burnt cheese on the top - of yours.’

  He pulled out a chair from the table, sat down and tucked in.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be easier if all the candidates had a public meeting, put forward their agendas and took questions from the great unwashed?’

  ‘I don’t think the residents of Dulwich would like being called ‘the great unwashed’; and yes, it would be a good idea, but you’d never get them all to agree to do it.’

  ‘They do it in America. Trump and Clinton did it.’

  ‘And what a shambles that was.’

  ‘Well, what do you expect? A washed up has-been with financial scandals against a grade one knobhead.’

  ‘I don’t think you’d be very good in the Diplomatic Corps, Justin.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘I do hope that Benji gets in, though,’ Palmer said seriously.

  ‘Do you mean that?’

  Mrs P. was a little taken aback at this.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if he doesn’t there’s an election coming up in three months for the local Police Commissioner’s job and I’d hate to think he might go for that.’

  Chapter 14

  Peter Brown sat and watched as the CD played on his laptop. He’d watched it a few times since that day he drove down to Cornwall. The screen split into four, and showed all four recordings taken by Maurice Jade’s four security cameras on the day that he was murdered.

  The bottom left screen showed the hall and front door as Mr Armitage was greeted by Jade and entered. Both walked out of view into the lounge, where the top right screen picked up the rear view as Jade walked into his lounge and was attacked from behind by Armitage wielding an iron wrench. Jade fell forward to the floor, where another final blow was dealt. As this was happening, the top left screen showed Peter Brown’s unmistakeable red Mercedes 280SL pulling up on Jade’s drive behind Armitage’s car, and Brown getting out. The screens showed Brown entering the house, walking through the hall and into the lounge as Armitage stood up from Jade’s prone body.

  They faced each other, Armitage raising the wrench and threatening Brown, who waved both hands in front of himself in a calming motion to Armitage. Armitage lowered the wrench and the two of them seemed to be talking for a few minutes, before Brown left and returned with two large plastic boxes from his car. Armitage then used the wrench to smash open the glass china cabinet and they removed the china pieces into the boxes, and the boxes out and into Armitage’s car boot. They talked for a further few minutes before Armitage drove off. Brown then re-entered the house and was seen in the hall opening a small wall cupboard, and then the screen went blank.

  Peter Brown sniggered to himself as he ejected the disc and held it up. Silly old fool, Armitage… you’d be doing life now if I hadn’t come along and removed this… You were so angry that you weren’t getting the house that you forgot about the cameras didn’t you, eh? Well, this little beauty is my insurance policy on you. You think I’d let you take the credit for the murder? No way, old man – Jade was mine, and you stole the joy of my day of revenge from me… But you’ll never be able to tell anybody – or sell that china until I say so; not while I’ve got this. His killing is on my list, and there it will stay…

  The evidence box from Cornwall duly arrived. In the Team Room, Claire put on latex gloves and laid its contents out along a table as Palmer and Singh put on their gloves and watched.

  ‘Not a lot there is there,’ Palmer noted in a disappointed voice.

  Gheeta nodded in agreement.

  ‘Mostly blood-stained clothes and crime scene pictures.’

  ‘And the box of security camera discs,’ Claire said, pointing out the box.

  ‘Minus the one for the day of the murder.’

  Palmer opened the box and looked at the discs.

  ‘Any comments on these from Cornwall?’

  Gheeta thumbed throu
gh the forensic case reports.

  ‘Just says Jade’s prints are on them. The people shown on the discs are himself, the Armitages, and various delivery people. All checked and cleared.’

  ‘So, it seems that only Jade had access to the security discs if nobody else’s prints are on them. Perhaps we are on a wild goose chase, Sergeant. Perhaps he just ran out of discs that day, and didn’t have another one to put in.’

  ‘No guv, according to the report there are ten used discs in here from the previous month, and twenty used for the current month of the murder. So, looks like he re-used them once the month was over.’

  ‘Seems logical; no point in buying new ones if you can re-use them.’

  Gheeta pulled out two discs in separate covers.

  ‘And these are the CCTV discs from the village Post Office and the local garage for that day.’

  She traced her finger down the case report.

  ‘Of no interest, according to the local forensic report. The people in the Post Office disc are all known locals and accounted for, while the garage is basically the same, but with seven unknowns. But being a holiday destination and in the middle of the holiday season that was to be expected.’

  Palmer took a deep breath and thought for a moment.

  ‘Okay, seven unknowns – so our killer could well be one of them. When the aged Peter Brown drawings come back from the artist do a comparison with the seven unknowns on the disc, and see if we can get a near likeness.’

  ‘Be nice if we do, guv.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it just.’

  Chapter 15

  Gheeta had just relaxed in her living room when her computer pinged. It was Thursday – she had forgotten it was Thursday. Thursday was the day Aunty Raani in New York and her mother in London had a conversation on the family website; the family website that Gheeta had built, and sometimes wished she hadn’t. But the Thursday family thing had become a ‘must do’, and anyway, a few minutes on the web with them was better than having mother ‘pop round’.

  She sat in front of the screen and logged in. Mother, Aunty Raani, and seventeen year-old cousin Bavinda were in conversation when her picture popped up alongside theirs.

  ‘Hello Mother, Aunty Raani, Bavinda.’

  They acknowledged her presence.

  ‘Are you well, dear?’ her mother asked. ‘You look pale.’

  ‘She is working too hard.’

  Aunty Raani, who was always quick to find something detrimental to say about Gheeta’s police career, was quick to seize the opportunity.

  ‘The life of a policewoman is not a good one for a lady.’

  ‘It’s a very good one, Aunty,’ said Gheeta, knowing what would come next.

  ‘No – no, at your age you should be settled as a mother and wife. I cannot understand you Gheeta, I really can’t. Where is the man in your life?’

  ‘There is no man in my life, Aunty. Only Palmer.’

  Aunty Raani perked up.

  ‘Palmer? Who is this Palmer? Does he come from a good family? Are they in business? What business? Have you met his parents yet?’

  Gheeta interrupted her.

  ‘He’s my boss, Aunty. He’s over sixty and happily married for forty years.’

  Aunty Raani was shocked.

  ‘You are having an affair with an older man?

  Gheeta turned to her mother for support.

  ‘Mum, explain please.’

  ‘Raani, listen,’ her mother explained. ‘Mr Palmer is Gheeta’s boss – that is what she meant by him being the man in her life, nothing more; it’s purely work. She doesn’t want a man in her personal life. Why should she want one? She’s doing very well without one.’

  ‘You have one,’ Aunty Raani addressed her mother. ‘I have one. It is not healthy. I keep giving you introductions to very good family businessmen in London Gheeta, but you never contact them. Bavinda is waiting with her sisters to be your bridesmaids.’

  ‘No, we are not,’ said Bavinda, looking amazed. Aunty Raani ignored her.

  ‘They are wondering why you are not married and giving them nephews and nieces.’

  ‘We are not.’

  Bavinda had witnessed this conversation many times.

  ‘We couldn’t care less. Stop trying to arrange a marriage, Mum; it’s so old fashioned.’

  She turned her attention to Gheeta.

  ‘Any good murders lately, Gheeta?’

  Gheeta took the chance to steer the conversation away from marriage.

  ‘Working on one now, Bavinda. Members of a pop group being knocked off one by one.’

  ‘Wow!! I hope its One Direction.’

  Gheeta laughed.

  ‘That’s not a very nice thing to say.’

  ‘I know, it’s just that my sisters play their songs over and over and over – drives me mad. It’s not as though they are any good; just another manufactured talentless boy band.’

  ‘I think you should pursue a career as a music critic, Bavinda,’ Gheeta laughed.

  Aunty Raani had decided she had to refute that earlier assumption.

  ‘I am not trying to arrange a marriage, certainly not.’

  Mother knew otherwise.

  ‘Yes, you are; you were always sending young men round with gifts to me when we were younger. Those old customs are dead now, Raani; you have to forget them. Young Indian women of today are worldly wise and run their own lives, choose their own careers, and choose their own husbands too. If we were African, you’d probably still be advocating FGM.’

  Aunty Raani was taken aback.

  ‘Good God – never!’

  ‘What’s FGM?’ asked Bavinda.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Aunty Raani, looking embarrassed. ‘I just think Gheeta is such a lovely young lady that she may be missing out on her social life by being single.’

  ‘Gheeta, tell me more about the murders.’

  Bavinda was the centre of attention when she regaled her college friends with an update of what gruesome killings her cousin Gheeta – who was, according to Bavinda, in charge of the London Murder Squad – was working on.

  ‘We have to go. We have some of your father’s business people coming round soon.’

  Aunty Raani thought that any details of murders would be inappropriate for a seventeen year-old daughter, who she still thought of as a little princess of the Disney kind; whereas Bavinda actually behaved more like a little hoodlum of the Godfather kind.

  ‘Dad never told me people were coming round. Are you sure?’

  Bavinda was disappointed, but Aunty Raani didn’t want any details of gruesome murders, thank you very much.

  ‘Yes, I am sure. See you all next Thursday. Take care.’

  She gave a little wave. Gheeta and her mother waved back.

  ‘Say goodbye, Bavinda.’

  ‘Bye Aunty, Bye Gheeta.’

  She turned to her mother.

  ‘What’s FGM?’

  ‘Have you finished your homework?’

  Their screens went blank.

  ‘Sometimes my sister drives me mad. So, how are you Gheeta?’ said Mother, sounding more relaxed now. ‘Is Mr Palmer okay?’

  ‘Yes, he’s fine; and I’m fine too, Mum. I do wish Aunty Raani wouldn’t turn every conversation we have into a discussion on my marital status. Judging by the men she’s tried to introduce me to in the past, I’d do better sticking a small ad in Mr Patel’s corner shop window.’

  ‘Don’t do that, whatever you do,’ Mother laughed. ‘You have to understand – Raani is the eldest female in the family; her marriage was arranged, and thankfully it has worked out. But I know many friends from my school days whose arranged marriages are just a sham; on the outside it seems alright, but inside it’s broken. It is such a waste – a good loving relationship between two people is made in Heaven.’

  ‘Don’t you start.’

  ‘No, no, you know your father and I have let you and your brothers lead your own lives; and we are very proud of you all. We would never interfere. Bu
t you know we are here if you need us.’

  ‘Yes Mum, I know that.’

  Chapter 16

  ‘Is that him? It doesn’t look like him.’

  Gheeta squinted closer at the screen.

  ‘It doesn’t look like the ‘him’ the art department gave us, but it’s him alright. Nobody else would be filling up a red Mercedes 280 SL in the village on the same day as the murder, would they?’

  Palmer straightened up from viewing the CCTV footage from Cornwall CID.

  ‘Well done for spotting the car, Claire. He’s certainly changed a lot from the bloke on the LP sleeve. Get a still from the disc and put it out to all forces and the Border Patrol.’

  Gheeta stood up.

  ‘Well, at least we know who we are looking for now. It’s a good clear image.’

  ‘Unless he’s changed it – grown a beard, shaved his head; couldn’t tell from the tube station pictures. Bloody hoodies, they should ban them. Other than the burka, they’re the easiest ‘off the shelf’ disguise villains ever had.’

  Palmer hadn’t any time for personal human rights where criminals were concerned.

  ‘It was that twat Cameron who said ‘hug a hoody’ wasn’t it? Yes, hug him as he plunges a knife into your chest and nicks your wallet. Great advice that was.’

  ‘Bingo! He’s still got the car as well.’

  Claire was tapping her keyboard.

  ‘DVLA has that registration number belonging to Peter Charles Brown, Top Floor Flat, 28 East Street, Walworth.’

  Gheeta was on the internal phone straight away.

  ‘Shall I get a car, guv?’

  ‘Yes, an unmarked one; and two plainclothes Firearms Officers with it.’

  East Street off the Walworth Road was quite a busy outdoor market. Stall holders shouted out their wares as Palmer’s car edged forward amongst the throng of punters.

  ‘Would be a market day, wouldn’t it. I think we’ll hoof it from here, come on.’

  Palmer opened his side door.