by Michael Kerr
“Wish I could, Doug. But Gant has bent cops in his pocket. The truth is, I’m not going to risk Kelly Davis’s life by telling anyone what they don’t need to know. She’s safe, is prepared to talk, and we have the two men in custody that Gant sent to take her out.”
“That’s not good enough. I’m responsible for―”
“The problem is, you’re not responsible, Taylor. If you were, then we wouldn’t have been able to move her from under your nose. She wouldn’t talk to your officers, so you weren’t interested. It’s too late now to want a slice of a pie you had no appetite for.”
“You don’t want to make an enemy of me, Ryder. The rumours about you are true. You’re a loose cannon.”
“Take a hike, or consider a career change, son, I’ve got crimes to solve,” Jack said and racked the phone. Being verbally offensive to the prick raised a smile on his face.
It was six-thirty a.m. when Jack phoned Lisa, waking her up to describe all that had happened.
“You’ve been busy,” she said in a sleepy voice.
“Mainly because of the release you scripted with Ken. It prompted a woman by the name of Dawn Turner to give us a bell. It confirms that you were right in believing he’s primarily a stalker.”
“What will you do?”
“Let you read the letters that he sent to Dawn, and listen to the tapes that she made of phone calls he made. It might give you a better picture of him. And I’d like for you to talk to Dawn.”
“I’ll arrange to take the day off and be with you in an hour.”
Jack met her in the underground car park at a little before seven-thirty. He put his arms around her shoulders and kissed her. It would be on CCTV, but he didn’t let that stop him. She was a civilian.
“You need a shave, you’re scratchy,” Lisa said, then kissed him back, urgently, pulling him tightly up against her.
“That should hold us for a while,” he said after a lengthy embrace. “What’s in the bag?”
“Doughnuts,” she said, holding up the grease-spotted brown paper bag. “I thought they would make your tarry coffee more palatable.”
“You could have made up a flask at home.”
By eight-thirty everything was coming together. Ken came into the squad room in time to take the last doughnut. He’d talked the brass into coming through with a deal for Tyrell to walk. Sammy Foster was going to be the patsy and take the fall for Joey Lewis’s murder.
Jack had kept one audio cassette and a dozen letters and sent the rest to Latents, convinced that any prints they lifted would be Dawn Turner’s and those of postal workers.
“Mike will take you to Dawn’s in Putney,” Jack said, handing Lisa an evidence bag with the tape and letters in, and a pair of gloves. “I’ve got another case with a loose end in need of tying up. I’ll give you a call later and see what impressions you get from that stuff, and of Dawn.”
Tyrone studied the proviso-laden paperwork. It looked good to him, but Jack had to sit around and wait until Tyrell’s solicitor turned up, asked for one or two points to be clarified, and then put his client’s passport to freedom in a briefcase.
Tyrone made an official statement, giving precise details that would end his boss’s reign of terror. Jack soon had enough to get a warrant for Gant’s arrest.
They used unmarked cars, and had a modified black Ford Transit van cruising in their wake with an ARU on board, suitably attired in Kevlar body armour and armed with enough fire power to start a small war in a banana republic.
Randy Gant had been kept under surveillance. He was at a meet with other class A drug distributors on a refurbished barge west of Kew Bridge. There was no foreplay. Jack gave the OIC of the Armed Response Unit the green light, and Gant and other known players were taken into custody without a shot being fired. Only one lookout on the deck had reached for a weapon, and got his skull fractured by the butt of a Heckler & Koch MP5.
When Jack went below deck, there were six of London’s top lowlifes laid face down, arms behind them, cuffed at the wrists. Jack took great pleasure in reading Gant his rights. A dark part of him would rather have gut shot the peddler of misery and death, and tipped him over the side of the barge. But a result was a result.
It was much later when he speed-dialled Lisa’s mobile number.
“Hello, Ryder.”
“Hi. Where are you?”
“Still at Ogilvy House. I was just about to leave.”
“You want to meet for coffee and tell me how it went?”
“Sounds good. Where?”
“Your place.”
Lisa chuckled. “Anything to save you a few quid. Okay, I’ll see you there.”
Jack smiled. He was having one of his better days. Taking Gant and the other scumbags out of circulation would have a far-reaching effect. He knew that it would be a significant blow. The bottom line was, if just one kid was saved from being put on the wrong road and ending up dead in a squat from shooting-up with bad shit, then he would have done something worthwhile. And the stalker/killer was having his feathers ruffled. They were beginning to understand what made him tick; knew that he was wholly besotted with the actress, Dawn Turner, and that the other murders were his method of letting off steam, to assuage the violent side of his nature and to vent the frustration that Dawn’s unresponsive attitude to his advances had generated.
They now recognised his motive. It was similar to a doctor diagnosing a disease, and by doing so being able to prescribe the most suitable and effective treatment. Pulling off Spaniards Road, Jack parked in the courtyard. Lisa’s Lexus wasn’t there. He opened the car window an inch and lit a cigarette. Thought about the snowman they’d built, which brought Danny to mind. He reached for his phone and made a call.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Shar’, it’s―”
“I haven’t forgotten your voice, Jack. What’s happened? Did you suddenly remember that you had a son and develop a conscience?”
“That’s not fair, Sharon.”
“As I recall, you always used to say that life wasn’t fair.”
Jack didn’t bite. He felt he deserved her acrimony. That she hadn’t got beyond needing to berate him was not something he could do anything about. Maybe that old enemy, time, would in this case help heal the wounds he had unwittingly inflicted.
“I thought I’d take Danny somewhere on Sunday. Is that okay with you?”
“We’ve got nothing planned. But I won’t tell him till Saturday night. That should give you enough time to call back and cancel, due to pressure of work.”
Jack gritted his teeth. How could he argue with her? He’d let Danny down before, more than once.
“I’ll be there,” he said, and hoped that he would be.
“Good. Try to get it through that thick cop skull of yours that Danny thinks the world of you. He doesn’t understand why you’re always too busy to be with him. If you really care about him, don’t alienate him the...”
Jack finished the sentence for her. “... way I did with you, you were going to say. I know, Sharon. I don’t want to go there. We’ve moved on. What is, is.”
The sudden disconnection made him wince. He put the phone back in his pocket, flicked the cigarette end out of the open window, closed it and climbed out of the car as Lisa arrived home.
He smiled. Just seeing her went a long way to restore his former even disposition, which had evaporated when Sharon reminded him what a complete bastard he could be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
DID they think he was fucking stupid? That he didn’t know what they were doing? The simpletons had cottoned on to the name that he had used. And so now Jerry Aken no longer existed; he never had. It was time to turn the heat up. Dawn must be totally brain dead to contact the police. But he would forgive her. The other murders, the inference in the tawdry tabloid headlines, and the fear generated on TV had understandably combined to frighten her. She would mistakenly believe that Jerry Aken meant her harm. He would contact her, when it was safe to
do so, and explain that she was his reason to exist, and that he would never, ever harm her. He shouldn’t have implied that she was at risk. This was all Detective shithead Inspector Jack Ryder’s fault. He and that shrink, Norton, who thought she could write him up like some one-dimensional character in a third-rate novel and unmask him. They had nothing. Without evidence, or knowing his true identity, they were chasing shadows. But he would monitor their activities. They had figured out his motive, and knew that Dawn was the centrepiece; the hub from which all he did was spokes leading out from it.
It was dark. Looking out, he saw that the moon was concealed by thick cloud. Ideal conditions. He was too agitated to contemplate sleep. He needed to lessen the anger. It felt as though his blood was too hot, prickling as it coursed through his veins. He needed to be active. More. He needed much more than that to moderate his choler.
Anita screamed. Dave shuddered and came violently as her coral-pink acrylic fingernails raked his bare back. Jesus! Her legs were now scissoring around his waist, ankles crossed, almost crushing him for a few seconds as she quivered and clung to him.
As her loud outburst faded to a low, contented moan, and her legs slackened and fell away, Dave grimaced at the soreness of his knees, which was due to friction burns from the nylon pile carpet. He gripped the edge of a table and slowly got to his feet, to stand on rubbery legs in the dimly lit lounge bar, fighting to get his breath back, before finding his cigarettes and lighting one up.
“You want a G and T, love?” he said to her, after finding and pulling on his underpants and trousers.
“Yeah, Dave, then I best be off. That was nice.”
Friday nights were very special at the Speckled Hen. And this one had been no exception. When the quiz was over and the last punters and all the staff but Anita had left, Dave Cornell locked up, turned off the lights and his old Wurlitzer jukebox and went upstairs to check in on Mavis, his wife, who was bedridden with multiple sclerosis and so drugged-up that he had begun to think of her as having about the same sentience as the Clinicare bed she was imprisoned on. He paid for a day nurse to look after her and carry out the necessary unsavoury duties that were involved, but it was not satisfactory by a long way. He found it hard these days to even look at his wife of almost forty years. Mavis just stared up at him most of the time with teary eyes, and drooled a lot. She wanted him to help her out of the shit state she was in through no fault of her own. But he couldn’t do it. What a fucking system! If she’d been a dog or a cat suffering to the same extent, then he would have been able to have her put to sleep, to do the right thing by her and prevent further unnecessary torment that would only worsen. Being a human being didn’t buy the same slack that pets got. Humanity and dignity was denied. You had to crawl over the finishing line and die hard. He should take her abroad to that clinic in Switzerland: Dignitas, which legally offered the service of assisted suicide at a hefty price.
Back downstairs, Anita was naked apart from smoky grey stockings and a suspender belt. She sat on a stool at the bar, sipping a large gin and tonic; her large, silicone-free breasts resting on the marble counter like cool, ripe melons.
At first Dave had thought she felt sorry for him. What with Mavis’s condition, and knowing that he wasn’t getting any. Truth was, Anita wanted sex without any strings. The type of men she had got entangled with had let her down, cheated on her, and walked away. She had her needs, but didn’t want to be hurt again. Dave fit the bill. He was over sixty, had his hands full, but could still get it up, and knew what to do with it, so Friday nights had become a weekly treat for both of them. The relationship was mutually gratifying, and had been ongoing for almost a year.
Dave sipped a malt whisky and watched Anita get dressed. Christ, he was already looking forward to next Friday. She was his lifeline, and probably knew it. He didn’t even care if she was screwing him out of sympathy for his crummy, lacklustre life. He just wanted it to continue.
Anita drained her glass, went to mop up and have a pee, then pecked him on the cheek, let herself out of the back door and drove away in her noisy Fiat.
Dave thought that maybe if...no, not if, when Mavis was gone, Anita might move in with him. It was a terrible thing to contemplate, but the illness had stolen Mavis’s personality. She wasn’t the same bubbly and extrovert girl he had married. She had no future, and they both knew it; were both waiting for different forms of release.
Mavis had fought the wasting, degenerative symptoms for a long time, and now felt how she imagined a boxer taking too much punishment must. Trouble being, she hadn’t got anyone in her corner to throw the towel in and bring the bout to an end. She wasn’t deaf; had heard the big-titted barmaid’s grunts and screams. Dave couldn’t even wait until she was brown bread. It was as if he had gone through his period of mourning while she was still alive, and had found solace in a young, warm, able body that could respond and pleasure him. She had grown to hate him. What he and the MS were doing to her was unforgivable. Between them they had erased all that had held meaning. The deep-seated love she had harboured for Dave, and life, had curled up like a fallen, dried-out autumn leaf and blown away.
Anita entered the house and closed and locked the door behind her. Went through to the kitchen before switching on a light.
Unusual. Tig was nowhere to be seen. He was usually round her legs, purring, bumping his head against her, demanding attention and affection. She called his name, put the kettle on, and then checked his bowls. There was no milk, and just a few dry looking lumps of meat. She knelt, picked the bowls up and put them in the sink. She would wash them and put fresh down. Maybe Tig was out getting some fresh air, although it was a squeeze for him to manoeuvre his obese body through the cat flap these days. He was getting old, slow, and had long since stopped bringing her presents of dead mice and birds. He spent most of the time curled up on top of the gate leg table in front of the lounge window sleeping, or watching the world go by.
She saw to his bowls, and then made cocoa and sat down to reflect on the evening. She was still tingling inside. Dave might be bobbing on a bit, but he knew how to please her. He was a gentle, giving lover, who knew which buttons to press to make her pop. And being on the pill, she could enjoy it au naturel. Most men preferred riding bare back, and so did she. Maybe when Dave’s wife croaked, she would have to leave the pub, though. She knew that Dave wanted them to be more than they were. He didn’t understand that it was the absence of commitment that made the relationship work. She had no intention of moving into the pub and being a replacement for Mavis. She needed space and independence.
Upstairs. The bedroom was cold. She undressed quickly, lifted her pyjamas off the top of the bed and fell forward onto it. Had she tripped? Been pushed? For a second she believed that Tig must have jumped up at her. She got up, turned, and was brought to a complete standstill, her muscles locking to deny her all movement.
He knew that it would take her two or three seconds to regain enough composure to take a breath and scream. Her eyes were like saucers; her mouth hanging open, bottom lip quivering. He glanced down for an instant and saw that her meaty thighs were trembling. Shame to kill her. She gave him the impression of being a perfect candidate for a lengthy telephone relationship. But there were plenty more where she came from. He wanted to play mind games with Ryder; give him more to think about than Dawn.
Anita regained her ability to function at the same instant as the masked figure swung his gloved fist. She instinctively rode the punch, turning her face to the side, lessening the impact to her temple. The force of the blow knocked her back on the bed. She rolled across it, came up on her feet at the other side and ran out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind her as, fuelled by panic, she fled.
He couldn’t believe it. She had moved so damn fast. Instead of feeling his fist thud into her skull with a satisfying jolt, causing her to fall back dazed or unconscious, he had almost lost his balance as she jerked sideways. He had only caught her a glancing blow, and it had galvanis
ed her into action.
He moved fast, around the end of the bed, straight into the edge of the closing door. He rocked on his feet, and a sharp pain exploded in his forehead. Only desperation gave him the strength to regroup and give chase. He could hear her bounding down the stairs. But she would not have time to escape.
Circumstances collude to determine the outcome of all events. If traffic lights had turned to green a second later, then a fatal crash would not have taken place, and people who had died would have lived, unaware of the subtle variables that lurk unseen in an indeterminate future. You can’t defend yourself against life; just live it until it has done with you. It is the fragility of it that makes it so precious.
The front door was not an option. There was a security chain to disengage, and bolts top and bottom. Anita grabbed the newel post at the bottom of the banister, swung round it, raced into the kitchen and threw the door back to affect another obstacle that would give her an extra second or two. She took the door key off one of the cup hooks that were screwed to the underside of a wall cabinet, shoved it into the keyhole and twisted, using her other hand to scrabble the bolt off and open the door.
As the cold night air chilled her, she felt a surge of relief. She would run around to the front, out into the middle of the well-lit street and scream her lungs out to alert the neighbours of her plight. The intruder would take off, and she would be safe.
An unforeseen and capricious incident that many people regarded as sod’s law stepped in smartly to modify proceedings.
Tig had been out prowling, saw Anita open the door, so came running. His howl pierced the night as Anita inadvertently stepped on his paw. She lifted her foot instantly, but tripped and fell headlong.
He had been halfway across the kitchen when the cat came to his aid. And to think that when he had used the key he had cut from the impression of hers to gain entry, he’d been going to kill the corpulent furball. He hated cats, but hadn’t wanted to make a mess that he would have had to clean up before its mistress arrived home. Instead, he had kicked the fat feline out of the door. Anita might just have made it, if her pet had not ruined the one and only chance she was likely to get.