by J G Alva
“Of course, you can guess what was happening. What I should have realised sooner.”
“He’d fallen off the wagon.”
She nodded, her mouth pulled down in a rictus of misery.
“I don’t know what set him off. To this day, I have no idea what made him pick up the needle again. But with the people he knew it couldn’t have been hard to fall back into that lifestyle. Easier, probably, than the one he had: he worked for a debt collection agency.”
“When was the last time you spoke to him?” Sutton asked quietly.
“A couple of days before he was killed. He called me.”
“And what did he say?”
“Not much. He wasn’t really making much sense.”
“Did he seem worried about anything?”
She shook her head, but said, “he told me he’d bumped into an old school friend. I remember that.”
“And what’s the school friend’s name?”
“He never said. He was erratic, talking about ten different things at once. He was going a mile a minute. I assumed he was, you know…”
“On drugs.”
“Yes. I tried to get him to go into rehab. There’s one just outside of Bristol. I’ve heard it’s very good. I even offered to pay, but…”
“He didn’t want to go.”
Jennifer hung her head.
“He said he didn’t need to go. That he had it under control.”
“I see.”
Not a new story, but still a sad one.
Sutton thought of Freddie then. Of the times he had tried to help him with his drinking. The late night calls, the running around Bristol, going from one pub to the next, looking for him, sometimes until four in the morning…he knew all too well the suffering of such an endeavour, the responsibility, the weight of trying to help someone close to you.
And the price of failure.
But unlike recently, no pain of loss accompanied the recollection. Instead, he thought of Freddie now with warmth, and a longing. He missed him…but there was no real pain.
Finally coming to terms with it, he thought, and didn’t know if he was relieved or saddened by the idea, but only knew that that was the way of things.
Sutton asked, “where did they find his body?”
Jennifer scratched at her face roughly.
“In a field just outside of Tetbury. He’d been…” Her hand groped in the air for something. She tried to take a breath, but it caught in her throat; she hitched once, twice, three times. A sob escaped her. She covered her face with her hands.
Sutton passed her a box of tissues.
She took one, and wiped at her face.
She stared at his collar bone with fixed rigidity, as if angry with him…but perhaps more angry with herself.
“He’d been tortured,” she said, her voice oddly flat…as if reciting a speech she had to deliver, despite her aversion to it. “There were cuts all over his body. Stab wounds. Broken bones. They’d been at it for hours. My baby brother…”
Sutton didn’t speak for some time; instead, he gave her a reprieve so that she could pull herself together. She did, eventually…but she went through four tissues before she was once more able to speak with any coherence.
“Do the police have a suspect?” He asked.
She shook her head, her mouth pressed into an unhappy upside down letter U.
“These things take time,” he said softly.
“They don’t know anything,” she said, her voice defeated.
“I’m sure they’re following leads –“
“No.” She met his eye then. “They don’t have anything. They told me. No witnesses. No suspects. No physical evidence.” She spread her hands, a knotted tissue in one. “Nothing. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I came to you.”
“Who?” Sutton asked. “Who told you to come to me?”
“The detective in charge of the case,” she said. “The one who told me that they had nothing on my brother’s murder.”
“What’s his name?” Sutton asked, although there could only really be one person.
“Sean Bocksham,” she said. “Detective Sean Bocksham.”
◆◆◆
He waited until after she had left before placing the call.
The only way he could console her was to promise to look into her brother’s death, but in all honesty he didn’t have much hope. If this was a killing relating to drugs in some way, then there wasn’t much chance anyone was going to get to the bottom of it. Certainly not him. He had done something similar in the past, with no success. And it would be the same thing again: unreliable witnesses, compromised by their addiction or by the people supplying the fuel for it. You couldn’t trust a drug addict to do anything; he’d kill his own mother, eat her flesh, and then blame his son for another fix. How could you work with that?
He rang the main switchboard number, and then was routed through two subsequent admin stations before the familiar voice came on the line.
“Sutton,” he said.
He didn’t sound like he was glad to hear from him. Sutton couldn’t blame him really. Like Robin, there were just too many bad associations to his name.
“Detective Sean Bocksham. How are you?”
“I’m good, thank you. And you?”
“I can’t complain.”
Sutton tried to conjure the image of the man in his mind’s eye. He hadn’t seen him for over two years, but he doubted he had changed much: short but stout, with a slightly boyish face, and a thick neck and shoulders.
A hard man. Precise, reserved, tough. Sutton liked him.
“What can I do for you?” Sean asked. “Assuming there is something I can do for you?”
“Can we talk?”
A pause, and a distant sound of movement.
Then:
“Yes. So she came to you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” A satisfied tone…but also something else? “I wasn’t sure that she would.”
“I’m surprised you sent her to me.”
“Why?”
“Because you could do this better yourself. You don’t need me.”
Sean paused, and then cleared his throat.
“We’ve hit a roadblock,” the detective said. “We think we know who did it – who killed the brother – but we can’t prove it.”
“You told her you had nothing.”
A hesitation.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
And then, as if it was obvious: “so she would go to you.”
“Okay. So why can’t you prove it?”
“The suspect died.”
“Suspicious?”
“Careless. It was an overdose. He was a habitual drug user, just like Liam Casey.”
“That’s provocative. The killer dying after the murder. Very Kennedy. Like someone is covering their tracks.”
“That’s what we thought. But if the overdose was staged, then the killer must be the most sterile human being on the planet.”
“No forensics?”
“Absolutely nothing. No DNA, no skin, no hair, no saliva, no blood. And no fingerprints. Everyone here is agreed – reluctantly, I might add – that the guy just overdosed. Thereby ending our investigation.”
“So who wanted him to kill Liam Casey? And why?”
Sean sighed tiredly.
“He’s got some known associates, and we’ve talked to them all. They don’t know anything – or more accurately, they’re not saying anything – but to be honest I’m not surprised. One of the so called ‘friends’ has links to the Zabijak.”
“Who – or what – is the Zabijak?” Sutton asked.
“The Zabijak is Czech,” Sean explained. “We think. What we know about him is sketchy. There’s some photos – I’ve seen them – and he looks Eastern European, but the quality of the photos isn’t good, and nobody knows the things about him that would actually help us out: nationality, age, address. God forbid he ever uses his name, but y
ou’d think – from what we’ve heard – that it’s never been mentioned. Not once.”
“They probably just call him the Zabijak.”
“Well, quite.”
“So what’s he got to do with it?”
“Well, to explain that, I’ll have to give you a little history lesson. How much do you know about Bristol gangs?”
“Very little.”
“Okay then. If we go right back, we can start with the infamous Kingswood Cock Road Gang. They were a nice bunch. They enacted the first recorded ram raid, apparently, tearing down the wall of the wealthy Mrs Prigg’s cottage to get to her; then they beat her until she gave up the location of her money. This was in 1817, I think. But all I suppose you really need to know is that, in any populated area, there are gangs, and Bristol is no exception. Until recently, we have been relatively gang free. The major players of the Aggi Crew are all in prison, and the last potential rumblings surrounded the death of nineteen year old Nicholas Robinson, in 2014…but that was attributed to a Birmingham gang visiting the city. So it’s not been too bad, of late. But somebody didn’t touch wood often enough, because in the last year there’s been rumours of a new gang operating in the area. No name yet, except for the Zabijak – he’s their leader. They must be selling drugs, but so far any investigation into them has been fruitless. Nobody’s prepared to give up any information on the Zabijak or any of the important people surrounding him.”
“Why not?”
“Too scared. Last year three people died in pretty horrendous circumstances…and now nobody wants to say anything that might offend them. But the three people who died were known drug dealers. So we’re assuming that they were setting an example.”
“Seems to have worked.”
“Hm. But this is the reason why we think the Zabijak is involved: all the victims were tortured over prolonged periods of time, using various…tools.”
“Tools?”
A hesitation.
“Power tools.”
“Just like Liam Casey.”
“Not exactly the same, but similar enough.”
“And you think I can help?”
“You’ve got some skills. And a disturbing lack of fear. If anybody can do anything, it’s you. But I would advise caution. These are not people you want to mess with. They’re liable to start cutting off bits of you…even if you simply arouse their suspicion.” He paused. “I’d understand if you turned me down.”
Sutton thought about it…
But the truth was, Sutton owed him, not the other way around.
“They sound delightful,” he said eventually.
“Maybe if you’re the devil. Otherwise, steer clear.”
“And what about the girl?” Sutton asked. “Could she be involved?”
“God, you saw her, Sutton, I don’t think –“
“If she was lying, it’s an Oscar performance,” Sutton agreed. “But I thought it best to ask.”
“Okay. Well, she’s got an alibi. For the whole day.”
“It took them a day to kill him?”
“Eight hours. So say Forensics.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah. They used high power drills with large drill bits on his chest, just deep enough to hit bone, but not deep enough to kill him. Then they flattened one of his arms with what we think was a lump hammer. Shattered all the bones.”
“He was alive through this?”
“Through most of it, yes.”
“And the sister knows?”
“We had to get her to identify the body,” Sean said sadly. “There wasn’t anybody else.”
“No wonder she’s traumatised.”
“Yes. It killed me having to tell her that we were closing the investigation. But we’ve spent a lot of time on it already, other cases are piling up, and I’m getting pressure to move on.”
“You’d think she’d get some comfort from knowing the guy who actually did it died himself.”
“Not really. She had some trouble herself from substance abuse when she was younger, so she knows what it’s like. So she’d be as sympathetic about him, if you can believe it. It wouldn’t help. And it’s not the end of it.”
“Any idea why?”
“Nope. The prevailing theory is that Liam was trying to do a deal that pissed some of Zabijak’s men off. But you’d be hard pressed to find some evidence to back that up.”
“Is that the sort of thing he would do?”
“What – Liam? He worked for a debt collection agency. Maybe he’d just had enough. He saw something he could exploit, tried it, and failed. He wouldn’t be the first drug dealer who thought he was smarter than anyone else and ended up in a box.”
Before Sutton had called Sean to get more details, he had felt the first tendrils of interest…but after talking to him for ten minutes, the interest had shrivelled and died. He wanted no part of this. He had a strong sense of self preservation. And this would be like walking into the Lion’s Den.
But the girl’s tear stained face…
“What did you tell her?” Sean asked, his thoughts obviously following along similar lines to Sutton’s.
“I said I’d take a look.”
“Will you?”
Sutton hesitated…then made a decision.
“Can you send the police file over?”
Sean sighed, almost as if he was disappointed that Sutton had agreed.
Or perhaps he felt guilty that he had sent the girl to Sutton in the first place.
“I’ll send them out in the post.”
“I’ll just take a tentative look.”
“Right.”
“No promises.”
“Be careful.”
“And thanks.”
“For what?” Sean said, confused.
“For sending her to me.”
“I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t,” Sean said morosely.
Sutton smiled.
“I’m beginning to wish you hadn’t too.”
◆◆◆
CHAPTER 16
Monday, 6th June
There was an unexpected phone call early Monday morning.
He woke up to a restored back…at least in principal. But he didn’t do anything to test it, like handstands or press-ups; he was content to be able to move about without any twinging muscles. After getting out of bed, he delicately flexed himself, and felt no subsequent tightening. He had always healed fast, and dreaded the day when his metabolism would eventually slow down (as he knew it must). But to dwell on such things was depressing, and he felt lighter today. Not ebullient but…lighter somehow.
And then the phone rang.
“Mr Mills?”
“Yes.”
“This is Jean Tammers. We spoke on Friday?”
Friday seemed like a lifetime ago.
Tammers had been Chris Masters’ boss.
“Yes, Miss Tammers. What can I do for you?”
“Well. I’m just calling to apologise.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I thought Mr Wilkes, our Porter, was away until next week, but it appears as if I was wrong.”
“He’s back?”
“Yes. As of this morning.”
“Is he there now?”
“He is indeed. Would you still like to speak to him?”
“I can be there in an hour.”
“Excellent. Then I will arrange for Mr Wilkes to be free at that time. We’ll see you in an hour.”
◆◆◆
Mr Wilkes really was from a bygone age.
Sutton hesitated to make comparisons between people and creatures from the Animal Kingdom, but one glance at Mr Wilkes’ face and he automatically thought Basset Hound. Two long ponderous jowls hung over a weak chin with a small mouth perpetually half open. A large white moustache obscured the top lip. There was a nicotine stain at one corner of the moustache. Wilkes’ eyes were bloodshot and watery. He stood at five feet five inches tall and was disconcertingly thin…except for a large protruding pot belly
.
He might have been fifty, he might have been ninety; it was hard to hang a definitive age on him. His clothes were mismatched and from Farmers Weekly: a blue, white and green checked shirt; a corduroy waistcoat; large baggy waterproof trousers; thick workman’s boots; and a tweed flat cap. His voice was deep and choppy, like a slow running vinyl record. All those cigarettes over the years…
Miss Tammers led Sutton to a corridor in the basement, where Wilkes was hard at work sorting through ancient nondescript boxes stacked three deep and six high, in a recess behind what looked like the main electrical junction box for the entire building.
“It’s a fucking fire hazard,” Wilkes proclaimed, after Miss Tammers had gone. He was standing with his legs spread, as if the boxes were quicksand and he might sink. “Anyone with a shred of common sense could tell you that. On paper, you’d think they were all geniuses upstairs, but when it comes to the nuts-and-bolts-reality of things, they’re all about as useful as a chocolate teapot.” He pulled a face, which Sutton realised with shock was meant to be a grin. “And as sharp as a Beach Ball.”
“Do you need a hand?” Sutton offered.
Wilkes waved him off.
“I’m fine.”
“What are all these old boxes anyway? They look like they belong with the Ark.”
“Fuck knows,” Wilkes said, and stopped. “My wife used to say that. Back when I was married. This is probably before you was born. Fuck knows, she used to say. And I’d always say back to her, you calling me Fuck Nose?” Wilkes shook his head, amused. “But all this shit is dated 2007. You’d think if they’d been down here that long and no one gave a flying two-hoots about them that they would let me sling the lot. But oh no. There’s got to be a bloody committee. They’ve got to sodding decide. Too many limp-wristed faggots in the ranks, that’s the bloody problem. Not a set of balls between them.” He pointed down the corridor. “Miss Tammers is the only one with any balls. And she’s a dyke.”