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

  ‘That sounds a bit involved, but you never know – he’s a clever bugger. Give our people at Elliott’s place a call and tell them to be on their toes; keep him inside for the time being. Better safe than sorry.’

  He stood and looked down the foyer to the outside of the hotel while Gheeta made the call.

  ‘Dark now,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘Nine o’ ruddy clock already; the match will be just about over. Oh well, should get back for the highlights on the late news. Great.’

  ‘Governor.’

  The tone of Sergeant Singh’s voice sent a warning signal as he turned towards her. She was cupping the mobile in her hand, and her expression said all was not right.

  ‘Elliott’s gone to the NEC. He’s doing a guest appearance at a Status Quo concert tonight.’

  ‘What? That’s just up the road. Oh Christ, that’s where Brown’s heading then, got to be.’

  ‘Well, we did tell him to carry on as normal. He’s got two of our protection chaps with him.’

  ‘Come on, that’s got to be where Brown’s going to have a go at him.’

  He looked at the local officers who were gulping down their coffees.

  ‘How long to get there from here?’

  ‘Thirty or forty minutes.’

  ‘Right.’

  They hurried to the car.

  ‘Blues on driver, and foot down.’

  As they raced towards the NEC, Gheeta remembered something and checked Palmer’s Facebook page. There it was, staring up at her.

  ‘Guv, do you remember the last message from Brown when we were at his bedsit? He said: time to complete my quest and get back to the status quo.’

  Palmer nodded.

  ‘He couldn’t have made his intention much clearer, could he? I should have had Elliott’s protection crew keep us up to date on his movements too. If Brown knocks him off tonight, Bateman will have my guts for garters.’

  Earlier that afternoon, Peter Brown drove slowly into the NEC complex and recalled being there with Revolution all those years ago. It was much bigger now; twenty halls and acres of more car parking space, but luckily the giant directional posters advertising the Quo show led him to the main hall. He parked up, took his small wooden box out of the boot and made his way with the throng of early arrival fans towards the entrance. Then he veered off and slipped through a line of small metal barriers to the back of the hall, where all the big tour lorries were parked up and an army of ‘roadies’ unloaded and wheeled the giant amps, instruments and other gear down the wide stage entrance corridor and up onto the stage.

  Brown stood in the shadows and peered carefully around until he found what he was looking for: a long wheel base transit van with the Revolution logo on the sides and back. One of the back doors was open, and Rob Elliott’s current roadie was inside working on a guitar. Brown crossed to it and silently stepped inside, pulling the door closed behind him.

  ‘What the…’

  That was all the roadie managed to say before Brown had him round the neck and slammed his head into the van’s side, knocking him spark out. Using a roll of gaffer tape, he gagged and tied up the unconscious roadie and dragged him out of sight from anybody opening the back doors.

  Brown smiled as he noted the guitar the roadie had been tuning was a Gretsch G9201 Honeydipper; a metal one, the type Rob Elliott had used all his career. He’d checked the latest tour photos on the Internet to make sure Elliott was still using that type of guitar a fortnight ago, as it was an integral part of his murder plan. He took off the roadie’s pass that hung around his neck and put it on, then pulling off the chap’s Revolution logo bomber jacket and beret he slipped them on too, then left the van carrying Elliott’s guitar and his wooden box. Walking slowly, he approached the security gate where two uniformed security personnel barred his way. He flashed them the pass.

  ‘I’m with the band.’

  They nodded him through and he walked slowly down the wide corridor towards the back stage without any more challenges. He smiled to himself. It felt good; just like the old days. But this wasn’t just like the old days at all. This was a ‘one off day’, a day of final revenge.

  He walked up the ramp onto the stage area, past other roadies heaving up various props and amps on bogies, and there he spied the floor manager. His heart was beating fast; if Elliott’s roadie was known to the floor manager this could be a problem. The floor manager was talking into a walkie-talkie and checking papers on a clipboard. Brown waited as the man finished his conversation and turned to him, eyebrows raised in ‘what do you want?’ mode.

  Brown raised the guitar.

  ‘Rob Elliott’s gear. Which amp do you want it plugged into?’

  ‘I thought you were bringing your own amp?’

  Brown thought fast.

  ‘No, nobody said that. I haven’t brought one with me.’

  ‘Shit…’

  The floor manager checked his running order plan.

  ‘Oh good, that’s okay; your guy’s only joining the band on stage for the final number. Good, that helps… Right, use that one over there.’

  He pointed to a large amp on the side of the stage forty yards away.

  ‘That’s a spare, I’ll mark it as in use. It’s all linked up to the others, so just jack the guitar into it and stand it in front. Do you need a sound check?’

  ‘No, I’ve done it all on the sound scope in the van. It’s all set to play.’

  ‘Good man.’

  ‘Have you seen Rob yet?’

  ‘Yes, he’s here somewhere; probably gone for a bite to eat. Got a couple of minders with him.’

  The floor manager’s walkie-talkie crackled into life and he switched his attention away from Brown who walked slowly across to the amp, looking around as he did so. Last thing he wanted now was for Rob Elliott to appear.

  He knelt behind the amp, its size keeping him from view, and opening his box he took out a heavy duty lead plug that he’d already adapted for the job he had in mind in his garage. Taking the guitar jack plug that was supposed to go into the back of the amp, he pushed in a splitter which converted the single lead into two leads; one was a plain one with a jack plug on the end, and on the end of the other was a high voltage switch that he could throw open or closed with a remote fob button of the type used for locking car doors. The plain lead with the jack plug he pushed into the amp, then turning to look behind he saw what he knew would be there: a thick cable to the stage light show display. Industrial type electricity of four hundred and eighty volts would be switched through after the final song to offer a blinding white light from numerous high voltage bulbs at the rear of the stage, all pointing towards the audience, which would be followed by compressed air cannons shooting coloured paper snow into the air, and a massive roman candle-effect light show. Being an indoor arena, no actual flammable pyrotechnics were allowed, which meant everything had to be electric. Health and safety regulations had worked in his favour.

  Working quickly out of view, he took a pair of shard pliers from his box and stripped the rubber coating off the cable, and then one by one stripped the coating off the copper leads and clipped the second lead with the switch onto them. He took out a key fob and tested the switch; the switch LED glowed red when he pressed the fob button. Good, all working as planned. He tested it once more before covering the whole lot in black insulating tape to cover his work and pushing the big amp back against the rear stage flat to hide it. There would of course be electricity put through the cable during the show for various illumination effects, but only when Rob Elliott put on the guitar and switched the lead to the amp to the on position, would it be possible for Brown to press the remote fob and close the switch, thus sending four hundred and eighty volts into Rob Elliott’s metal guitar and into him.

  A final look around to make sure he hadn’t left any signs of anything being tampered with and he gathered his box and walked away towards the exit, with a spring in his step and a smile on his lips.

  ‘Hey,
you!’

  The voice cut through him like a sharp knife. His heart leapt into his mouth and he prepared to run.

  ‘Hang on, mate.’

  He turned as a runner panted up to him.

  ‘Are you Rob Elliott’s roadie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s in the Green Room and said you were to join him for a meal when you’ve finished.’

  Brown thought fast.

  ‘Tell him it’s all done, guitar’s all set up and ready to play, but I’m not feeling too good. I’m going back to the van for a lay down.’

  ‘You do look a bit pale, mate. Anything I can get you?’

  ‘No, but thanks for asking. I’ll take a couple of aspirins – must have eaten something that doesn’t agree with me. Tell Rob not to worry; just leave me alone and I’ll be alright, and I’ll see him after the show.’

  ‘Okay, mate. Take care.’

  The runner left as Brown made his way to the van; the roadie was still out cold in the back. There was still an hour to go before the show started, so he drove the van to the farthest car park and parked it right at the back in the dark shadows of the perimeter trees. Then, he changed the Revolution jacket for his own, put the bobble hat in his pocket and walked slowly back towards the main hall.

  Showing his pass at the entrance, he was waved through and moved into the wide pedestrian area behind the seating stand, where the merchandise stalls tempted the fans with official overpriced T-shirts, jackets, flags, and just about everything else you could get a transfer printed Status Quo picture on; all made in China for pennies and sold here for pounds. He remembered in the early Revolution days when he paid two pounds each for screen printed T-shirts of the band at the local printers, which they sold at the gigs for a fiver. He got angry inside again as he thought of the money Revolution would have made from merchandise rights over the years; money that he felt he should have had a cut of.

  He found a seat round the back of a burger stall and sat there, watching the excited punters come in. This was it; the big finale to his plan. Tomorrow he would be a free man, and be able to start to get his life back on track without the incessant drip, drip, drip of revenge tapping inside his head. If Elliott’s appearance on stage was during the last number in the show, he could wait where he was and just go up the stairs to the back of the main stand near the end and watch from there.

  Chapter 20

  It was two hours later, with the show in full flow, when Palmer’s car sped into the NEC and with the blues still on screeched to a halt at the back of the main hall. Security had been alerted that he was coming, and their chief opened the car door.

  ‘I’m Jameson, head of Security. How can we help you, Superintendent?’

  ‘Chief Superintendent.’

  Palmer gave him a withering look as he got out.

  ‘Apologies, Chief Superintendent.’

  Palmer nodded an acceptance of the apology and straightened his coat, donned his trilby and looked around.

  ‘We have reason to believe that Rob Elliott, who is a guest on the Quo show tonight, may have an attempt made on his life.’

  ‘Fu…’

  Jameson saw DS Singh coming around the car.

  ‘I mean, flipping hell!’

  A look of panic came over his face.

  ‘We must cancel the rest of the show – it’s well over halfway through.’

  ‘No need to do that, Mr Jameson; don’t want to alarm the public. We have our people with Mr Elliott and they are fully aware of the situation. I want to keep this very low key, so the would-be killer is unaware we are here and onto him. I take it you have a security suite with CCTV covering the arena?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Right then, the first thing to do is go there and do a visual sweep. Hopefully we can find our man with that. Lead on, if you would.’

  He turned to the two plainclothes officers.

  ‘You two mingle inside. You’ve got a mugshot of Brown, so keep your eyes peeled and your earpieces on. Our two chaps with Elliott are patched in, so we are all in the loop. Your call signs are ‘one’ and ‘two’; the officers with Elliott are ‘three’ and ‘four’.’

  They nodded they understood and made their way off into the hall.

  In the security suite Palmer sat beside a CCTV operator and Gheeta beside another.

  ‘Right,’ said Palmer, pointing to an array of screens showing the audience enjoying the show. ‘One camera start at the front row and take one row at a time working upwards, another at the top row and work down. My Sergeant and I know what this man looks like, so with a bit of luck we can pick him out if he’s in the seats.’

  ‘He’s not, guv.’

  ‘What?’

  Gheeta pointed at the screen she was watching.

  ‘Top of the stairs on the right, standing behind the top row of seats.’

  And there he was: Peter Brown, standing behind the top row of seats and looking down at the stage fifty yards in front and below him.

  ‘Get ‘one’ and ‘two’ up there and grab him.’

  Gheeta gave the directions on her radio. Palmer turned to Jameson.

  ‘If he sees us and runs, how many exits are there from where he is?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘He’s on the top corridor, there’s fifteen stairways down from there. Fire exits, we have to be able to clear this place in minutes. Twelve thousand people in here, Superin… Chief Superintendent. There’s another fifteen exits halfway down the seat banks, and a fully open exit area at the bottom.’

  On the screens the crowd suddenly erupted vocally and physically.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Palmer was worried. Jameson pointed to another screen showing the stage in close up.

  ‘Rob Elliott’s just been introduced and come on for the big finale.’

  Palmer watched the screen as Elliott stood taking the fans’ rapturous cheering and hugs from the Quo band members.

  ‘Guv.’

  Palmer had heard that tone in Sergeant Singh’s voice before, and he didn’t like it.

  ‘Guv, Brown’s doing something. I can’t make it out, but he’s fiddling with something in his hand.’

  She turned to the CCTV operator.

  ‘Get me a close-up.’

  The camera zoomed in close on Brown.

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  Palmer moved beside her and leant nearer to the screen, trying to make out what Brown was up to.

  ‘Oh shit!’

  Gheeta knew what she was looking at.

  ‘He’s got a switch, guv; a fob switch. He must have planted something on the stage.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Explosives?’

  Palmer reached over, and pulling her radio from her jacket spoke into it.

  ‘Get Elliott off the stage – three and four, clear the stage now. Suspect package. One and two, keep after Brown.’

  The screens showed Elliott being hustled off the stage, and the band following fast.

  Brown was taken by surprise at that, and then what was happening sank in. He’d seen a roadie take Elliott’s guitar off the top of the amp, switch it on and stand it ready for Elliott to pick up and play. He’d seen Elliott introduced and come on stage. He’d pulled the fob switch from his pocket and was all ready to make an explosive end to his mission of revenge – and then… and then it had all gone wrong.

  They knew! They must know! Somehow that fucking Palmer had cottoned on at the last moment – he must have put two and two together on my Facebook ‘status quo’ remark… Shit! I was being too clever… Okay, smart arse copper, take this…

  The anger welled up and he pressed the fob button.

  The screens they were watching in the security suite went bright white, as the electricity pulse from Elliott’s guitar that should have hit the ground – using him as a conductor and killing him in the process – tried to find another way to ground through the NEC power circuit.
The amps on stage exploded with great plumes of white sparks shooting up, as the overhead lighting rigs also exploded and showered sparks down. The hall lights went out, and as the audience realised this wasn’t the big finale light show but something that shouldn’t be happening, the emergency lighting came on giving them enough light to rush for the exits.

  Jameson surprised Palmer with his calmness in such a situation. He radioed his security and door staff to control the crowds.

  ‘Don’t let them run. Keep them walking and open all exit doors.’

  The secondary tannoy system came on automatically and Jameson used it.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have an electrical system malfunction. Please leave the building quietly and in an orderly way. Walk, don’t run. Do not try to collect any belongings at any cloakrooms as they are shut for the time being. Please go into the car parks and to your designated assembly area, which is shown on the back of your ticket.’

  He pressed a repeat key and the system automatically kept repeating his message.

  ‘Will the CCTV come back on?’

  Jameson shook his head.

  ‘No, the motherboards will have been melted.’

  Palmer spoke into Gheeta’s radio.

  ‘Updates please, one and two. Have you got Brown in sight, over?’

  ‘Negative, over.’

  ‘Okay. Three and four, what’s happening with you, over?’

  ‘Elliott’s in a patrol car, sir, no injuries. Everybody seems to have got off the stage okay, over.’

  ‘Good, well done lads. I would think that half the West Mercia force will be here pretty soon. Grab the first uniformed car and have them take over Elliott and get him off the premises; then you two join us in the hunt for Brown. Over and out.’

  ‘Will do, sir. Over and out.’

  Palmer rose and nodded to Sergeant Singh.

  ‘Right Sergeant, let’s go and find Peter Brown before he does any more damage.’

  ‘Blowing up the NEC isn’t bad for starters guv, is it?’

  Outside in the dark car parks, the emergency lighting cut down through the misty darkness, giving the lines of people in their assembly places a surreal look; others who had thrown their tickets away were being directed by security staff. A host of blue flashing lights were arriving as the police, ambulance and fire departments of Birmingham responded to what they thought was a major disaster.