Laughing Boy

by Stuart Pawson

  Tim opened the Buick’s glove compartment and raised the sheaf of documents that lay inside. The gun was underneath them. He lifted it out and inspected it.

  The wooden grip felt comfortable, reassuring even, in his hand. It was a Taurus revolver, made in Brazil, bigger than a twenty-two but not quite a thirty-eight. There were four bullets in the gun, with an empty chamber under the hammer and another next to it. Tim smiled at his father’s concern for safety. He could pull the trigger once and nothing would happen. Next time, he’d mean business.

  Tim pushed the cylinder round one click, and then another, just to be certain. He turned the gun in his hand, threading his thumb inside the trigger guard, and placed the snub barrel in his mouth. It was as numb as the kiss of a faithless lover. As he applied pressure to the trigger he felt the cylinder rotate against his lip, bringing the next bullet under the hammer. And then he felt nothing.

  Happy Thanksgiving, Mom. Happy Thanksgiving, Dad.

  Chapter One

  Yorkshire 2001

  There is no such thing as an ordinary person, so it follows that there is no such thing as an ordinary murder. I remember thinking that in the early days of the enquiry, after we’d raked through the ashes of Laura Heeley’s life until our fingers hurt and our eyes burned. I may even have said it to the troops during one of my more eloquent pep talks.

  Laura was thirty-eight when she died, and had lived in Heckley for all that time. Local secondary modern school; left at fifteen to be a machinist in one of the last mills in town; married a boy from the next street when she was twenty and had two children in the next three years. The kids were now fifteen and seventeen and had never been in trouble with the police, bless ’em. Laura played bingo twice a week, taking her elderly mother along for a game, and did her shopping at Asda on a Thursday afternoon. Through the day she worked part-time packing electronic components in one of the featureless warehouses in the new technology park at the edge of town and her favourite television programme was Emmerdale. Ordinary was a word that came charging out of the sunrise on a palomino pony as soon as you thought about her.

  Until one evening in February, as she walked home from her mother’s house after another moderately enjoyable but utterly fruitless game of bingo, her numbers came up for the first time in her life. One person in the entire United Kingdom was chosen to be stabbed to death that Tuesday evening, and that person was Laura Heeley. Somebody walked up behind her and plunged ten inches of razor-edged stiletto into her back. It penetrated C&A coat, BHS blouse, M&S bra, skin, muscle and finally her heart, with total indifference, leaving her to die at the side of an unlit lane.

  That’s where I come in. My name is Charlie Priest – that’s Detective Inspector Priest – and I handle all the murders around here. For just over a month I’ve lived, breathed and slept Laura Heeley until I know things about her that would shake her husband out of the torpor that has gripped him for most of his adult life. I’ve drawn charts, read files, made cross-checks and stared at video screens until big blue tadpoles started swimming across my eyes. My staff have made over five thousand interviews and looked at the tyres on every car in West Yorkshire. I’ve consulted, cooperated and co-ordinated until I didn’t know which was which and I’ve sat on a rock, high on the moors with the wind in my hair, and talked to the sky.

  The sheep gave me some funny looks but no answers. They were right to be concerned: foot-and-mouth disease had erupted in Essex and Northumberland, and they had relatives there.

  Laura Heeley, for whom the word ordinary was coined, just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time. She crossed paths with someone who, for reasons known only to himself, needed to kill a woman on that spring night. He’d had a row with one; caught pox off one; hated his mother, who was one; who can tell? Maybe he’d had a row with his mother after he’d caught pox off her. It’s not unknown.

  What was for sure was that I was summoned before an independent review team at HQ for a case meeting. Thirty days without a result and people in high places start asking questions. They want to hear about suspects, possible leads and lines of enquiry. It’s not all bad news. If you’re short of resources it’s a good opportunity to make your case.

  So I stood up and told them everything we’d done, which was a lot, and everything we’d achieved, which was diddlysquat. They had a few suggestions, nothing dramatic, and I accepted them gratefully. She’d been murdered by a random attacker who had no motive and no recognisable modus operandi. He hadn’t killed again, so hopefully she was a one-off. The time had come to wind down the enquiry, re-deploy the troops, and I reluctantly agreed. I was treading water, and for the life of me didn’t know what to do next in the Laura Heeley case.

  If I’d known that she was number five in a series I might have had a few ideas.

  Next morning we had a big meeting, crowded in the conference room. I told the troops about the review team’s decision and thanked them for the hard work they’d put into the case. “Reports,” I told them. “Get your reports finished and tagged, no matter how futile you believe them to be, before you resume normal duties. And meanwhile, let’s have one last brainstorm. Anything you don’t understand about the case, or any cockeyed theory you might have, now’s the time to air it. Who’ll start the ball rolling?” Individual officers have their own areas of enquiry, and can’t be expected to know everything about the case. That’s my job, to have an overview, but I have no illusions about my omnipotence and was at a stage where I would have accepted suggestions from the cleaning lady.

  “Dave?” I invited, looking at big Sparky Sparkington sitting in the front row. He’s a close friend and doesn’t mind being put on the spot.

  “Yeah,” he began, shuffling in his seat. “We all know the statistics. According to them, it’s a family matter. Are we really happy that the husband and son are in the clear?”

  We’d covered this ground a thousand times, but it helped break the ice. I pointed at Jeff Caton, one of my DSs, and invited him to comment. We’d spoken to the family together, initially, handling them like one would handle any bereaved relatives. Then Jeff had called them in for a formal interview, “just for the record.” It’s a delicate situation, balancing sympathy for their loss with your suspicions that they may have done the deed themselves.

  “I’m happy about them,” Jeff told us. “The daughter’s alibi is watertight – she was ten-pin bowling with friends and still had the receipts. The son and husband are not totally in the clear – they could have conspired together, but there’s nothing for them in it.”

  “I’ll go along with that,” Maggie Madison interrupted. She’d worked with the family as police liaison officer. “Barry and young Billy are completely lost without Laura. They don’t know how to boil an egg between them. Barry has never made a cheque out in his life and hasn’t a clue about the washing machine or where the clean towels are kept. Laura ran the house and ran them. In short,” she added with a smile, “they were a typical happy family.”

  “No skeletons?” I asked.

  “Big row, two Christmases ago. He got drunk, had a fight with Billy. The daughter, Sarah, used it as an excuse to leave home and live with her boyfriend, but she’s back now.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Laura was friendly with an old man who lives nearby. Used to take him meals and talk to him, but there was nothing in it. He’s a pensioner.”

  “Pensioners have their moments, Maggie,” I remarked. “Well, I hope they do. Did Barry know about this?”

  “Yes, but he’s not the jealous sort. He’s not any sort. A couch, a television and a remote control and he’s as happy as Larry.”

  “As you said, they were a typical happy family. Anybody have a question?”

  “Insurance?” a voice asked.

  “None,” I replied.

  “Are the kids his?” someone else asked.

  I hunched my shoulders, pursed my lips and opened my eyes wide. “Dunno,” I admitted. “They’re supposed to b
e his, not adopted, that is. What do you have in mind?”

  “Well, maybe somebody else put Laura in the family way, all those years ago, and he’s born a grudge ever since, biding his time. It’s just a thought.”

  “Yep,” I said. “It’s a possibility. Resentment smouldering away inside him. We have samples from them all but I don’t think we asked the lab for a paternity test. We’ll check it out. Thanks for that, anything else?”

  We rabbited on for another hour, chewing over stuff that I’d grown sick of the taste of but was possibly new to some of the others. Unusual tyre prints had been found near where Laura died, and the owner of the vehicle that left them had been tracked down. They were cheap imports from the Eastern Bloc, and only two hundred and fifty had been brought into the country, so it wasn’t a difficult task. He admitted being there, but twenty-four hours earlier, and had dumped a mattress and some other rubbish in a farm gateway. Forensics proved the mattress was his, witnesses confirmed it had been there when he said. We did him for littering and moved on, but the review team were not happy about this and I’d agreed that we’d have him in again. It was a waste of time but it made them feel useful. I delegated a few jobs and closed the meeting.

  “Tea, Vicar?” Sparky asked, ten minutes later as he manoeuvred himself into my little office, two steaming mugs in his hands.

  “Cheers,” I said, pushing the papers on my desk to one side.

  Noticing DS Jeff Caton sitting in my visitor’s chair he said: “Oh, am I interrupting?”

  “No,” I told him. “Move that stuff and sit down.”

  “You want a tea, Jeff?”

  “No thanks, Dave.”

  “So what do you reckon?”

  “We reckon that there’s a killer on the loose, that’s what,” I said.

  “And we’ve failed to catch him,” Jeff added.

  “We will do,” Dave assured us. “Wouldn’t like to think I’d done a murder, these days.”

  “Optimism!” I retorted. “From you? What happened to the usual morose Sparky we all know and love?”

  “I have confidence in you, Sunshine, that’s all. Well, in you and mitochondrial DNA.”

  “Oh God,” I said. “He’s been reading the Sunday Times again.”

  “Something will turn up, just you wait and see.”

  “Yeah, but what if it’s another body?”

  “Blimey, we are down, aren’t we. Is there summat I don’t know about?”

  I shook my head. “No, not really. I’m just not happy about disbanding the team but I don’t know what else we could’ve done.”

  “We need a morale booster,” Jeff said. “Something entirely different to use up our energies and give us a high.”

  “Start the walking club again,” Dave suggested.

  “We can’t. Everywhere’s closed off because of foot-and-mouth.”

  “It’ll soon be over.”

  “We’re always starting the walking club. It fizzles out, mainly due to shift patterns.”

  “How about the London marathon? Or the Leeds marathon? We’d get entries in that.”

  “Too much commitment required,” I said.

  “And we’d look fools, training in our fancy costumes,” Jeff added.

  “You don’t have to wear one, you wally.”

  “In which case you look a fool when all the fancy costumes beat you. Imagine buying all the best gear – the Adidas vest and shorts; Nike shoes; a headband – training for a year, running twenty-six miles and then getting beaten in a sprint finish against a Telly Tubby.”

  “Or Thomas the Tank Engine,” I said.

  “Good point. So what about Karate? Table tennis? Ballroom dancing? Five-a-side soccer?”

  “Mmm, I don’t think so.”

  “The Three Peaks?”

  “We’re always doing the Three friggin’ Peaks. We’ve done the Three Peaks so many times my boots say: ‘Oh no, not again,’ when the car stops at the Hill Inn.”

  “Ask around, Dave,” Jeff said. “See what the troops think. It’d be good if we could come up with something to keep the team together.”

  “Right,” he replied, adding: “Now can I ask about the crime?”

  “Which crime?” I asked.

  “Mrs Heeley’s murder.”

  “Sure. Fire away.”

  “That killing in Lancashire, near Nelson, the beginning of February. You brushed over it in the debriefing just now because there are no apparent similarities, but I think they could be connected.”

  “Robin Gillespie,” I said. Robin was found dead on the edge of some waste ground just outside Nelson. He’d been hit once on the head with a hammer and his body brought to the spot. He was fourteen years old.

  “That’s right. Poor little Robin.”

  “You went there with me, Dave, and saw the files. What’s troubling you?”

  “It’s a random killing, like ours, and Nelson is only thirty miles away.”

  “The MO was different.”

  “It’s a progression. First one, a blow to the head – efficient but impersonal. Next one, a knife in the back – much more satisfying.”

  “Thanks Dave,” I said. “That’s really cheered me up. Just what I needed.”

  “Any time. Want me to have a word with our litter lout friend?”

  “Yes please. I was just going to ask you. Meanwhile, I’ll get the lab to check on the paternity of Mrs Heeley’s children.”

  “And I’ll go back to making the streets of Heckley safe for women and kids,” Jeff said, rising to his feet.

  When I was alone I picked up the telephone, but it wasn’t the lab’s number I dialled. “It’s me,” I said when the front desk answered. “Spread the word. Sparky will be coming round sometime, asking about volunteers for extra curricula activities – walking, running the marathon, that sort of thing.” After a couple of minutes’ conspiratorial chatting I pressed the cradle and this time I really did dial the lab.

  Sparky’s belief that the two murders were linked worried me. Laura Heeley appeared to have led a relatively blameless, uneventful life. She was a bit of a gossip, we discovered, and was often the first to pass on information, suitably embroidered, about the downfall of any of her neighbours. Two brothers a few doors away had been put on probation for shoplifting and Mrs Heeley had been vocal and indiscreet in her condemnation of them to the extent that their father had called and had words with her, but stealing chocolate, even Ferrero Rocher, doesn’t usually lead on to murder. In mediaeval times she might have been a candidate for the ducking stool when things were slow, but in modern, cosmopolitan Heckley she had largely lived her life unnoticed.

  Robin Gillespie was a son that any father would have been grateful for. He played for the school football team and somewhat reluctantly in the school orchestra, on viola. He was killed while on his paper round, which he did to earn money for a proposed trip to Florida, and his body transported about a mile and a half to the waste ground. The local police found the spot where he died, in a dark stretch of road between two groups of houses, but no weapon. He had not been sexually assaulted and the pathologist found no evidence of previous homosexual experience.

  Two murders, no motives, and little else to link them. But murder is relatively rare in this country, and random killing almost unknown, apart from among young tearaways. The more I considered it, the more convinced I became that Sparky might be right. I found my copy of the Almanac in the bottom drawer and thumbed through it until I reached the NCIS entry.

  Chief Inspector Warburton shared a symposium with me at Bramshill a couple of years ago, talking about crime in market towns. It all went straight over my head. Rural, suburban or inner city, I just look for fingerprints and round up the usual suspects. The only difference, I told them, is the type of shit you get on your shoes: cowshit, horseshit or dogshit. I left a message for him to give me a ring.

  It was Nigel Newley, a DS at HQ and my number one protégé who called me first. “Hi, Boss,” he said. “It’s Wednes
day, are we going to the pub tonight?” He’ll still be calling me boss when he’s Assistant Chief Constable.

  “Have you any money?” I asked.

  “Um, a small amount.”

  “In that case, see you in the Spinners, usual time.”

  “Do we, er, have a lift home?”

  “I’ll arrange it.”

  “Smashing, I’ll walk there, then. See you.”

  “Ta-ra.”

  DCI Warburton rang shortly after. We reminisced about Bramshill for a few seconds and then I told him about Laura Heeley.

  “The husband did it,” he announced.

  “Ah!” I exclaimed. “Many a true word, and all that. He’s not completely in the clear, but unlikely. It looks to be a completely random act.” I then explained about Robin Gillespie, hardly thirty miles away. He was interested, and promised to have a look at the database for similar unsolved murders. Apart from that, I didn’t know what else we could do.

  Colinette Jones stood in the doorway of Mr Naseen’s shop and watched the rain dapple the road and distort the reflections of the streetlamps. She shrank back slightly as a car went by, the spray from it chilling her legs, and pushed the umbrella out into the night before unfurling it. A hand fell on her shoulder and her boss said: “You’ll get soaked, Colinette. Let me ask Mrs Naseen to mind the shop and I’ll run you home.”

  “No thanks, Ali,” she replied, shrugging off his arm. “It’s not far.” Once before he’d offered, and she, on only her third day working for him, had gratefully accepted. He hadn’t exactly tried anything when he drove straight past her street and stopped at a well-known lovers’ lay-by, but he’d subjected her to a forty-minute description of the breakdown in intimate relations with Mrs Naseen since their fourth child had been born. It wasn’t as if he was remotely fanciable, she thought. He was old, for a start, nearly fifty at a guess, and grossly overweight.

  “It’s no trouble, Colinette,” he insisted. “I don’t want you going down with a chill now that you are such a valuable member of my staff.”