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

‘Be all day at this rate. Park it up where you can driver and wait for my call. Come on you lot.’

  He got out and couldn’t help but notice the sideways glances and quick disappearance of several stall ‘workers’ when they caught site of Sergeant Singh’s uniform and the two burly plainclothes officers that joined him on the pavement. Things hadn’t changed much since this area had been part of his patch as a young detective. The triangle between the Old Kent Road and the Walworth Road had been a hot bed of petty crime, with a few big players amongst them; old school villains who were on first name terms with their ‘mates’ in the Met, their ‘mates’ being officers who turned a blind eye to various escapades and made phone calls prior to making raids that never found anything; and all for the brown envelope of ten pound notes slipped to them once a month.

  Palmer hadn’t particularly liked being part of the cleanup teams set up by Commissioner Sir Robert Mark but had realised at the time that the bribery and corruption in the Met had gone too far. By the time the new Commissioner Sir Robert Stephenson came in, the clean-up had forced four hundred and seventy-eight officers to leave the force with disciplinary bad marks against them. Palmer had made himself unpopular with some bent CID units for calling for the usual ‘get out’ of a bent officer being able to take early retirement on full pension to be stopped, and the officer to stand trial like any other criminal. So unpopular was he that at one stage he had armed protection officers at home. He smiled at the memory; the Met had changed but the criminals hadn’t.

  He looked at the nearest door.

  ‘That’s number fourteen, so this way.’

  He led them along the crowded pavement, stepping over boxes of vegetables stacked over boxes of fake designer clothes, perfumes, trainers and God knows what other contraband and stolen goods, all waiting to be moved on, sold, or fenced. East Street market was a known outlet for such goods; it used to be said that you’d have your watch pinched by the time you’d walked twenty yards into the market and be able to buy it back off a stall before you reached the end.

  ‘This is it, guv,’

  Gheeta pointed to a doorway with 28 scrawled in paint alongside it.

  ‘Doesn’t seem as though Peter Brown is living the high life, does it.’

  ‘No, it does not. No wonder he’s a bit miffed at the band’s success if this is what he’s come down to. I can understand his anger now.’

  He turned to the two Firearms Officers.

  ‘Right lads, easy does it. But remember he’s a multiple murder suspect, so any funny business from him just take him down fast.’

  The officers nodded as they followed Palmer into the dim hallway. Old paint was peeling off the walls and busted children’s toys parked or dumped along it created an obstacle course. Gheeta flicked a wall light switch, but the solitary hanging bulb stayed dead.

  ‘Right then, better start to look for him. Top flat, the DVLA said.’

  Palmer led the way up a bare wooden staircase with a wonky banister that creaked annoyingly. The first floor yielded two more doors, and at the end of the landing a small flight of six stairs leading to the top flat. There was a bell with the name BROWN on the dirty label. Palmer pointed it out while motioning the others to be silent. No security peephole in the door that he could squint through, so he gently knelt down and slowly pushed open the letter box flap and looked through. All he could see was an empty room, except for a couple of chairs, a TV, a sofa and a low table. It looked very clean and orderly.

  Straightening up he gave a few taps on the door. No answer, and no sound from within. He tried again.

  ‘Mr Brown? Are you there, Mr Brown? This is the police, open the door please.’

  Nothing. Palmer took two steel pins from his pocket, knelt down in front of the door and picked the lock.

  ‘Amazing what skills you can pick up in the force.’

  He stood up as a gentle push slowly opened the door.

  ‘Oh look, Mr Brown’s left the door open. That’s handy.’

  Peter Brown walked along East Street and crossed through the crowds to his building.

  ‘You’ve got visitors, mate.’

  The stallholder from the fake designer clothes stall pitched outside his street door nodded towards it as he hung a bundle of coats on a mobile rail.

  ‘What?’

  Brown didn’t understand the comment.

  ‘Rozzers, three plainclothes and a uniformed bird. Went in a few minutes ago. What you been up to then, eh?’

  Brown understood that alright.

  ‘Thanks, mate.’

  He turned and quickly mixed into the crowd, and made his way back to the end of the street; then down a narrow vehicle entrance between two shops and into a resident’s parking yard surrounded by lock-up garages. He unlocked the up and over door on his garage and swung it up, just enough to bend under and go inside before lowering it behind him. Sitting in his car he took out his iPhone and brought up Palmer’s page on Facebook and tapped a message.

  ‘Hope you’ve got a search warrant Chief Superintendent. All breakages must be paid for. Now it’s time to complete my quest and get back to the status quo, bye bye.’

  Then he sat, deep in thought. He was so near to finishing the job, so near. Just one band member to go, and his mind would be free from all the hate and stress. Just one. He had to get away and complete the job. Can’t stay here, the neighbours know I’ve got a garage. They’re bound to be questioned by the police… Got to get away now... One more day, that’s all I need – one more day.

  He left the car and took a small wooden box from the shelf at the back of the garage which he put into the car boot; then he lifted the garage door before getting back in the car and driving out into the yard. He stopped, got out, shut and locked the door, and drove out of the yard onto the road and headed for the M5.

  ‘Cheeky bugger – all breakages to be paid for.’

  Palmer looked at the message Sergeant Singh was showing him on her laptop.

  ‘Can we get a fix on it?’

  ‘Claire’s doing that now, guv.’

  ‘Must be close, otherwise how would he know we are here? He must have seen us come in.’

  ‘He might have a webcam in here somewhere, guv. Then he’d be able to watch the room from anywhere on a laptop or mobile.’

  Gheeta was busy looking for it.

  ‘But I can’t see one.’

  ‘So he’s possibly watching us now?’

  ‘Yes, could be.’

  Palmer immediately thought that installing one in his hall at home would be a good idea; he could sit in the local pub and monitor when Mrs P.’s Gardening Club or WI meetings were on and stay there until they had finished, rather than being banned to the kitchen with Daisy and a takeaway.

  ‘I don’t think there’s one here, guv.’

  Gheeta straightened up from checking under the low shelves.

  ‘It would have to have a good view of the room and would be fairly obvious.’

  Her mobile rang. It was Claire. She listened and thanked her before turning to Palmer.

  ‘You were right, he was close. Postcode puts him in the same area as us, not more than a hundred yards away.’

  ‘He won’t be there now. Be miles away by now. He’s not stupid is he, and we know he already knows we can pinpoint him. Right, not a lot we can do here. Get SOCA to go over the place; tell them what we are looking for, anything to do with Revolution or its members. I’ll have a word with the local CID and get them to do a house to house with Brown’s picture and see if we can turn up anything from the neighbours.’

  ‘Might be worth me checking the other residents of this building now, guv. I only noticed four doors so wouldn’t take long.’

  ‘Okay, good idea. Take the plainclothes boys with you and watch your back. I’ll see you back at the office.

  Back at the office in New Scotland Yard Palmer fed the coffee machine in the corridor with his loose change. Loaded with two coffees, he went into the Team Room and passed on
e to Claire who was busy at her terminal.

  ‘That’s very welcome sir, thank you. Looks like you nearly got him at East Street.’

  ‘Yes,’ Palmer said as he slipped his coat off and sat down. ‘Perhaps I should have put a surveillance team on the place and waited. How did he know we were there?’

  ‘Probably just saw you and bolted.’

  ‘Yes, in his special car no doubt.’

  ‘A red Mercedes 280SL. I’ve got a camera request ongoing with Traffic and Transport for London. They’re checking the street cameras in the area to see if we can pick it up.’

  ‘Good, well done.’

  He sipped his coffee and pulled a face.

  ‘Christ! This stuff is awful. Trade descriptions should prosecute whoever calls this coffee. Glad I didn’t spill it – take the shine off my shoes.’

  He stood up.

  ‘Right, I’m going in the office to write up the daily case report that Bateman insists on having – bloody waste of time. Hope he gets the Commissioner’s job, maybe the next incumbent won’t be so fussy.’

  He went across the corridor to his and Sergeant Singh’s office and settled behind his desk, took a deep breath, and started filling in the report.

  Half an hour later he’d rewritten it three times and was about to make more changes when Sergeant Singh arrived back.

  ‘We found his garage. guv.’

  ‘And his car?’

  That would be too good to be true.

  ‘No, and not much evidence really; just a few tools and empty oil cans. But I’ve got SOCA going in when they finish with the bedsit. You never know.’

  Peter Brown was feeling a little worried as he drove up the M1. Every time he saw a police patrol car he tightened up inside. He really didn’t have any reason to feel like that, as the first thing he’d done when he had got clear of East Street and up the Walworth Road was to take the Borough High Street from the Elephant and Castle, park his car in the basement of a NCP car park, and hire a basic Ford Fiesta at the rental garage.

  I’m not stupid, Palmer… not stupid enough to travel around in my own car. The only way you could have traced my home was from the car – who told you about the car, eh? Fucking Rob Elliott, got to be… Well, Mr Elliott… make the most of your last days alive…

  When he got to the M6 he turned onto it, and then half an hour later into the Coventry Premier Inn for the night. He felt better now.

  Chapter 17

  ‘He got in.’

  Mrs P. greeted Palmer with a great smile.

  ‘Who got in, Trump?’

  He settled into a kitchen chair and loosened his tie. It had been a hard day.

  ‘I told you he would – people’s choice. Like Brexit.’

  ‘Benji got in – or should I say Councillor Benji. He got in by a landslide.’

  Palmer faked utter disappointment.

  ‘Oh no, you can’t have people like him on the council.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Fake tan and pony tail?’ he said, then putting on a posh accent: ‘Not the sort of thing we expect of our councillors in Dulwich.’

  ‘We will just have to get used to it then, won’t we?’ replied Mrs P. with an equally effected voice.

  ‘Well, I hope he remembers all the hard work you and Dotty Watkins put in. Tell him I think he should lower the rates band for this house as a thank you.’

  He suddenly thought of something and quickly left the house, then returned a couple of minutes later struggling with the large Benji poster from the front garden wall.

  ‘Don’t have to have this up anymore then, do we?’

  Mrs P. took it from him and stood it against the wall, admiring it proudly.

  ‘It’s a memento of a great day. What shall we do with it?’

  ‘Burn it.’

  Chapter 18

  The next afternoon in the Team Room Palmer and Singh looked at the CCTV results from the traffic department that Claire had printed out.

  ‘So, he went up to the Elephant and down the Borough High Street and that’s it?’ Palmer asked.

  Claire nodded.

  ‘That’s it. He doesn’t show on any cameras from then on; to all intents and purposes, he disappeared.’

  ‘No, he didn’t do that. He stashed his car somewhere. He knows we know what he’s driving and it’s not exactly going to blend in, is it? So he dumped it somewhere. But the important thing is, what did he do then?’

  Sergeant Singh moved to the back wall and looked at the large-scale map of London.

  ‘I’ll have a word with the local station in the Borough guv, and impress on them the need to find this car; get them to check around a bit, have a word with the local garages.’

  ‘Not heard from him at all, have we? No messages on the page?’

  Palmer was hoping for a lead.

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ said Claire. ‘All quiet.’

  ‘Where is he then? Where are you, Mr Brown? What are you up to now?’

  He walked over to the progress chart and looked at it, hoping some inspiration might come from it. Nothing did.

  Sergeant Singh’s mobile rang and she took the call. Her smile told Palmer good news was about to emerge.

  ‘Got him!’ she said, shaking her fists in the air.

  ‘In custody?’

  ‘No guv, but after you’d left Brown’s bedsit yesterday SOCA found his cheque book in a drawer and I put in a request to his bank for details of any cards he might have and a trace on their use. He’s got just the one debit card, and he used it yesterday afternoon at Euro-Rental in Waterloo where he hired a Ford Fiesta, and then again this morning at the Premier Inn in Coventry. I’ve got the vehicle number, so I’ll put a ‘find and watch’ call out to West Midlands and get them to see if it’s parked at the hotel still.’

  ‘Plainclothes; don’t want any uniforms frightening him away if he is still there.’

  ‘No, guv.’

  ‘And get a car for us; I think we’d better get up to Coventry. I don’t think he’s going to come back to East Street anytime soon – seems he’s off to somewhere else. Would be today wouldn’t it, eh?’

  Gheeta reached for the phone to order a car.

  ‘You got something booked for tonight then, guv?’

  ‘Mrs P.’s toad-in-the-hole, followed by Barcelona versus Real Madrid on Sky, ‘El Clasico’; an evening of heaven just gone down the pan.’

  He rose, went across the corridor to his office and returned with his hat and coat.

  ‘If the great British public knew the sacrifices I make to protect them, they’d make me a Saint.’

  AC Bateman walked in, having heard the last comment as he did so.

  ‘Certainly wouldn’t be Saint Palmer of the Paperwork, would it Chief Superintendent? Any chance of yesterday’s daily report being on my desk sometime in the foreseeable future?’

  Palmer stalled for an answer.

  ‘Ah… Well, I was just putting the finishing touches to it sir, when we got word that our killer has been located; and we are just off to hopefully arrest him now.’

  ‘Saint Palmer of the Excuses might be a good fit too. Update me on the case before you go please, Chief Superintendent.’

  Bateman sat down, and Palmer brought him up to date as fast as he could.

  ‘Okay, you’d better get going then. Media tells me the newspapers are getting restless on this one; rather not have any ‘police incompetence’ stories in the Sunday papers if we can avoid it.’

  Palmer agreed.

  ‘Not when something might be happening on the fifth floor, sir. Any news?’

  ‘Not the kind you’ll like, Chief Superintendent. Unfortunately for both of us, I was unsuccessful.’

  Palmer felt genuinely sorry for Bateman.

  ‘Oh, well, I am sorry, sir. I really am. I know you wanted it, and in my book you’d be the man for the job.’

  ‘Yes, well, in other people’s books I wasn’t. Never mind.’

  He turned to leave and sto
pped briefly at the door.

  ‘Perhaps I should have employed Dotty Watkins after all.’

  They exchanged smiles as he left. Gheeta eyed Palmer suspiciously.

  ‘I think you’re secretly glad he didn’t get that promotion, guv. I reckon you’ve got a bit of respect for Bateman that you try to hide.’

  ‘He’s okay – and better the devil you know,’ Palmer said as he slipped his coat on. ‘With any sort of hierarchy in the work place you sort of reach a plateau of agreement after a time; you know how far you can go with the boss and when to stop. I’ve got that with Bateman, so although I don’t actually like fast-tracked university nerds who have never arrested anybody running the force, I know how to play the game. It’s a bit like marriage; I know the things that would make Mrs P. bristle, so I don’t mention them.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Oh, anything to do with her appearance that isn’t complimentary. Like the time she had a blue rinse and perm; she looked like Marge Simpson in a gale, but I couldn’t say anything or she wouldn’t have talked to me for at least a month. And any toad in the hole would have been a definite no no.’

  Chapter 19

  Brown had left the hotel by the time the local CID got there. The receptionist confirmed it had indeed been Peter Brown from his mugshot, and the hotel CCTV showed him driving out.

  Palmer sat back on a sofa in the hotel lounge as Sergeant Singh checked the vacated room and sealed it for SOCA to examine. She came back and joined him, their driver, and two local CID officers who had ordered coffees.

  ‘He hasn’t left anything in the room, guv. SOCA will go over it, but I don’t think it will give us anything; just an empty hotel room.’

  ‘Do you think we’ve had a wasted journey? Where’s he gone now, what’s he up to? He must have come up here for some reason.’

  ‘Red herring, guv? Is he clever enough to realise we’d find his bank details and be able to track him through his card, so he’s dragged us up here on purpose and then perhaps doubled back to have a go at Elliott on his home turf?’