by David Carter
‘What vaguely, exactly, what?’
‘Pretty much on the nail.’
‘And you didn’t think to tell me?’
‘It’s a little bit more complicated than that, Guv.’
‘Oh, in what way?’
‘He’s err, kind of, my bloke.’
‘What! Your boyfriend?’
Karen nodded.
‘Jesus! And does “your bloke”, as you describe him, have a rock solid alibi for both killings?’
Karen shook her head, and said, ‘Not that he’s telling me.’
‘Have you discussed the case with him?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Forgive me, Karen, but I find that hard to believe.’
‘I know it looks odd, Guv, but it’s the truth.’
‘Mrs West will have to be told. It doesn’t look good, does it?’
‘I know that, Guv, but once the fingerprint thing came up it really didn’t seem so important.’
‘You know the score KG, ALL intel is important, because it builds up the bigger picture.’
Gibbons came back and shared a look with Walter who said, ‘How was she?’
‘Miffed! She said that both she and her client were being unnecessarily messed around.’
Walter pulled a face.
‘That’s the least of my worries.’
He turned back to Karen and said, ‘I’ll need to interview this Mr Baker. Where can I find him?’
Karen gave him the phone numbers and an address.
‘You’ll not be able to attend, you know that?’
‘Sure, Guv.’
‘In fact you may need to be taken off the case. I’ll check that out with Mrs West.’
‘I thought that might happen.’
‘You thought that would be the case, didn’t you?’
‘It occurred to me, Guv, of course it did, I just wanted to get to the bottom of it first, I was bending the rules a little, I’ll admit, just as you did with the....’
‘Oh no! Don’t you dare compare my off the wall ID parade plan with your withholding information, it won’t wash!’
‘Sorry, Guv, but surely it’s all irrelevant now that we have concrete proof on Flanagan?’
‘There are numerous holes in that argument, don’t you think? Why didn’t Corla ID him, for one, how did he break his tag time, for two, you still haven’t found any evidence he is tag tampering, and how and where did he meet Belinda Cooper, for three? And that’s just for starters. Hardly watertight, is it?’
‘He was in her bedroom.’
‘Maybe, but nothing else fits.’
Gibbons phone rang.
They heard him say, ‘Just a second, Mrs Revelation.’
How she must have been miffed by everyone calling her “Mrs”.
‘Yes, he’s here, just a sec, I’ll put him on.’
Gibbons grimaced and gawped at Walter.
‘It’s Corla and she sounds....’
‘Sounds what?’
‘She sounds kind of frightened, Guv.’
Walter grabbed the phone and said, ‘Corla, what’s up?’
‘I’ve seen him!’
‘You’ve seen who?’
‘The murderer, of course, or at least the man who came out of Belinda’s house. I’ve seen him twice.’
‘Where? When?’
‘First thing this morning when I went for the papers, I always go out early if I can, stretch the legs, that kind of thing. He was across the road, but ducked out of sight when I looked at him.’
‘And the second time?’
‘A few seconds ago, crossing the square.’
‘Which square?’
‘The one outside Portobello Towers.’
‘What are you doing there?’
‘I was so unsettled when I saw him earlier that I had to get away from the house, so I decided to come and stay here with my nieces. They live in number 35. Safety in numbers, and all that.’
‘You mean Janice and Chantelle are your nieces?’
‘Yes, how do you know them? They haven’t been naughty, have they?’
‘No, nothing like that, they were helping me with something else.’
‘That’s a relief. Please come over, Walter. I’m so frightened. I’m certain he’s coming here to kill me. I’m the only witness, you see, without me he’ll get away scot-free. It’s me he wants.’
‘Sure. We’ll come straight away.’
‘Please hurry, and bring plenty of puff.’
‘Puff?’
‘Yeah, the damned lifts are off again.’
‘Bugger! Stay in the flat, lock the doors, and don’t go out. We’re on our way.’
‘Thanks Walter. You’re a love.’
He set the phone down.
Karen, Jenny, Gibbons and Nick had all gravitated to his desk.
‘Where’s Hector?’
‘He’s gone to see Pat the snout. Had some intel for us, apparently,’ said Gibbons.
‘Okay, Nick you stay here and man the phones. When Hector checks in, tell him to get down to Portobello Towers, PDQ, number 35. Jenny and Gibbons, get yourself a car and get over there and wait for us outside.’
Gibbons nodded. Jenny said, ‘Got it.’
Karen slipped on her jacket and headed for the lift to grab a car.
‘Nick,’ said Walter. ‘You bring Mrs West up to speed. Tell her Corla Revelation says she has just seen the prime suspect outside her niece’s flat. She says he’s there to kill her.’
‘Sure, Guv. But if the suspect is there, what’s Flanagan doing in the cells?’
‘Good question! Let him stew for a few hours. We’ll keep you posted.’
‘And what about the Duty Sol?’
‘Humour her, I’m sure you’re capable of that.’
Nicky grinned, ‘Happy to.’
Two minutes later and they were in cars pulling out of the underground car park.
‘It’s him, Guv, I know it’s him?’ said Karen.
‘Who are you talking about now?’
‘David Baker, of course.‘
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘No alibi for either murder. Fits the description to a T. Never talks about his family and background, typical behaviour of the career criminal, that is, and he’s the only one who wasn’t on the bloody ID parade. And just my luck....’
‘I don’t follow. Just your luck, what?’
‘It’s always the same, Guv, as soon as I get to like someone, I mean really like someone, you know what I mean, it all goes tits up!’
‘Let’s see what we see, eh, before we jump to conclusions again. Can’t we go any faster?’
‘Oh yes, Guv, a lot faster,’ and she flattened the accelerator and the big car bucked and leapt ahead.
There was a ragbag of cars parked outside Portobello Towers. Some working, some not, some taxed, some not, some owned, and no doubt some stolen, but they weren’t there for that.
‘Do you see David Baker’s car anywhere?’
She glanced around.
‘No, Guv, he drives a flash company thing. It’s not here.’
‘Corla said she saw the man walking across the square, maybe he came on foot.’
‘Could be.’
Gibbons and Jenny arrived, Jenny driving, as she mouthed through the glass, ‘Stuck in traffic.’
Walter nodded. Karen’s mobile rang.
They both thought it might be Mrs West.
Karen glanced at the screen and gasped.
‘What’s up?’
‘It’s him, Guv.’
‘David Baker?’
Karen nodded, and took the call.
‘Hi, sugar,’ he said. ‘Are you alright?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Karen, sharing a look with Walter. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Baker?’
‘Well, I got to my first appointment a little early, and I was just thinking about you, and I thought how nice it would be to hear your sweet voice, and talk to you for five, so here I am....’
‘And where are you, exactly?’
He glanced up at the old grey building before him.
‘I’m in Crewe, outside Cheshire Oats and Muesli PLC, a very romantic spot, I don’t think. Got an appointment in ten minutes....’
‘You’re in Crewe?’
‘Yeah, that’s what I said, why?’
Karen turned to Walter and said under her breath, ‘How far is Crewe from here?’
‘About twenty-five miles,’ said Walter.
‘So if my David is twenty-five miles away, who the hell’s the guy Corla saw crossing the square?’
‘IF he’s in Crewe,’ said Walter, getting out of the car. ‘It’s about bloody time we went and found out what the hell’s going on here!’
‘I’ll ring you back!’ said Karen, cutting DB off, and jumping out of the car, suddenly feeling a whole lot better about things. She slammed the door and beeped it locked, and hurried after the others, who were already closing in on the large dark timber double doors that led into the bowels of Portobello Towers.
Thirty-Six
Gibbons pumped the lift button. Damn all happened.
‘They’re off,’ said Walter. ‘Corla told me.’
‘Fuck!’ said Gibbons, glancing at the stairs.
‘Gibbons and Karen, go on ahead,’ said Walter. ‘And be careful. Jenny, you keep me company.’
‘Which floor?’ said Gibbons.
‘Eight. Number 35.’
‘Fuck!’ said Gibbons again.
‘Language, Darren,’ said Walter, shaking his head. ‘It’s not necessary.’
‘Sorry, Guv,’ and Gibbons and Karen began the long jog up 128 stairs towards the eighth floor.
The man had beaten them to it by a good twenty minutes. When he arrived on the eighth floor he found it deserted. The door to flat 35 was open and blowing in the draughts that Portobello Towers was renowned for.
He eased the door open and crept inside.
Someone had left in a hurry, almost as if they had been tipped off. They couldn’t have gone far. There were three half full mugs of coffee on the small table. Still warm. The kettle in the kitchen was hot to the touch. The place smelt of baby food. It would have been better if there had been just the one cup, but no matter. It wouldn’t stop him. He thought of settling down and making a coffee, and waiting to see if they returned. But he wasn’t a waiting around kind of guy, always thought it much better to take positive action, to be proactive, in all things.
He returned to the sitting room and gazed around.
Pushed in against one wall was an old-fashioned glass display cabinet, and in the unit were a selection of round glass paperweights, blue and green and aquamarine. Everyone knew they were heavy and made perfect missiles. He opened the doors and picked up two and slipped them in his jacket pockets. Gabbed another two, and kept them in hand.
He stepped out of the flat and paused at the top of the stairs. Footsteps from below echoed through the common parts, coming higher. A man and a woman’s, one light, one heavy, fit people, coming on, silent, not pausing for breath. He could empathise with that, it had been heavy exercise to reach the eighth floor.
He crouched and stared down the stairwell. He couldn’t see them completely, just shadows, and occasional glimpses of hardworking elbows, and fleeting feet, powering the ascent. He could hear them puffing and blowing, the man leading the way, though not by much. The man stood up and thought he’d slow them down. He pulled back his arm and brought it forward, fast and true, and sent the first blue missile hurtling down the stairwell.
It crashed into the black plastic covered metal banister, right beside Gibbons, and exploded into fifty pieces of jagged glass.
‘Fuck!’ said Gibbons, for a third time.
He paused and shook his head. There were shards of coloured glass on his jacket sleeve. He shook them away and checked he wasn’t hit. He seemed okay, and glanced back down, six or seven steps.
Karen was there, lying on her back, across the stairs, one arm dangling through the metal balustrade. There was blood on her face. Gibbons glanced up the stairwell, checking for further incoming fire. He couldn’t see or hear anything at all, no movement; no sign of anyone still being up there, as if they had seen their chance, and had scurried away.
‘Jesus!’ said Gibbons, retreating down to Karen. ‘Are you okay?’
It was her nose that bled, just a nicking flesh wound, he thought, as he gave her his handkerchief. He reached across to her protruding hand to pull her back from the edge of the stairs, and home into safety and out of sight, and as he did so for a matter of seconds he showed himself. It was enough.
Karen whispered, ‘Go and get the bastard!’
Two floors up, the man saw his opportunity, glimpsed the head, and let go a second missile. Heavy cobalt Bristol blue glass full of pretty swirly bubbles hurtled through the air, propelled by gravity, and a muscular bicep, running straight and true, like an airborne torpedo. It thudded into Gibbons, striking him a glancing blow, hitting him at the junction of the top of the neck and bottom of the head, right side, where it bounced off and fell straight on down, passing a puffing Walter and Jenny, coming up two floors below, on its way to ground zero.
‘What the hell was that?’ said Walter.
Jenny shook her head and yelled upwards, ‘Karen, Darren, are you okay?’
Gibbons crumpled in a heap on a still prone Karen, and didn’t move. She wriggled free and managed to turn him on his back.
‘I’m okay,’ she yelled, though non too convincingly, and a minute later Jenny arrived at her side.
‘You’re bleeding!’ she said, glancing at Karen’s face.
Karen wiped her nose and cheek. The handkerchief was soaked scarlet. It was forever surprising how much blood can gush from a small flesh wound to the ears, nose, and face.
‘I’m okay,’ she said. ‘But I’m not sure about Gibbons,’ and they glanced down at the man. He was still out cold.
Walter arrived, blowing hard, taking a moment out, bending over and holding his knees. Andrea Dennehey’s words flashed into his brain. I thought you lot had to keep in shape - yeah right. He stood up and hurried over to Gibbons and said, ‘How is he?’
‘He’ll live, I think,’ said Jenny. ‘But he needs checking over, could be concussed.’
Walter glanced at Karen’s bloodied face.
‘Are you okay? You look a mess.’
‘Thanks, Guv. Just a flesh thing, looks much worse than it is.’
‘I’ll take your word for that,’ and Walter nodded and said, ‘Call an ambulance for Gibbons,’ who was finally showing signs of coming round, ‘And call for backup, and where the bloody hell is Hector?’
Jenny shrugged her shoulders on the Hector thing, and pulled out her mobile. Walter did too and rang Hector. He picked up immediately and said, ‘Hi?’
‘Where the hell are you?’
‘Hi Guv. I’m in Portobello Towers.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘I saw some people on the ground floor. They told me of a barely known little used rear traders’ staircase. I thought I’d try that, seemed a likely getaway route if anyone wanted to use it and slip away.’
‘Good work! How far up are you?’
‘Fourth floor.’
‘Okay, see you on the eighth, and look out! The bastard’s lobbing down missiles, Gibbons and Karen have both been hit.’
‘What? Badly?’
‘No. They’ll live. See you soon.’
‘You got it, Guv.’
Walter sucked in a big breath.
He convinced himself he was enjoying a second wind.
Karen said, ‘Coloured glass paperweights, remember?’
‘Only too well, in that cabinet. Jenny, you stay here and look after Karen and Gibbons. Wait for the ambo people.’
‘I’m alright, Guv,’ insisted Karen.
‘You’re not!’ said Walter. ‘Look at the state of you!’ Brooking no argument. Blood was running again. It didn�
�t look good.
The man above let go a third missile. It had been a nice thing once. Vivid aquamarine. It crashed into the edge of the stone step close by and exploded. Everyone automatically threw up their hands and arms to protect themselves from incoming glass, and what little of it came their way thudded into the arm of Walter’s heavy overcoat. Then a fourth followed, but missed everything, and hurtled straight on down. Up above, they heard a man’s footsteps running away, going higher.
‘Hector and I will deal with this character,’ said Walter, striding out towards the next step. ‘Keep undercover, just in case,’ and they watched him grab the black banister and haul himself upwards like an irritated snorting bull.
Karen tapped Gibbons’ cheek.
‘Wakey-wakey, boy.’
Gibbons’ alarmed eyes opened with a start.
‘Fuck!’ he said. ‘What hit me?’
The girls giggled.
‘Glass paperweight.’
‘Felt more like a cruise missile.’
‘Just lie still,’ said Jenny. ‘Ambulance on the way.’
‘I’m okay,’ he said, and Gibbons tried to stand.
He didn’t get half way.
‘No, you are not!’ said Jenny. ‘Just lie still.’
‘Who do you think it is?’ asked Jenny. ‘Up above?’
‘I think it’s the Mirror man,’ said Karen.
‘So do I, I always have.’
‘I think it’s Speight,’ said Gibbons, ‘put money on it.’
‘One thing’s for sure,’ said Karen, ‘it can’t be Flanagan, he’s in the cells, and it can’t be David Baker either, he’s in Crewe,’ if he was telling the truth.
‘David who?’ said Gibbons, wondering what he’d missed.
Karen changed the subject.
‘I’ll look after Gibbons, you go on up and help the Guv. You’re more good there.’
Jenny nodded and said, ‘Sure, Sarge,’ and took a run at the staircase, and disappeared up them, Karen’s voice chasing after her. ‘Be careful!’
Downstairs, sirens could be heard. Backup, ambulance, maybe both, but it was a comforting noise nonetheless.
Up above, Walter made it to the eighth floor. He was breathing heavy, but what man approaching sixty wouldn’t be? Not that many. He made his way along the corridor towards number 35. Hector popped out of a narrow door at the far end of the corridor. He was breathing hard too, but not so much.