by Ray Clark
“I realise that,” said Gardener. “I’ll request some operational support officers to help out. Maybe if we can get enough of them they’ll go through the boring stuff.”
“Maybe we should try photo recognition again,” said Longstaff. “It’s possible they left the country using false names and passports, and maybe even disguises. But what if they’ve been a bit too clever for their own good?”
“What are you thinking?” Gardener asked.
“Well, now they’ve allowed the heat to die down, what if they’ve all flown back under their own names, using their own passports?”
Gardener smiled. “Well done, Julie.”
“Makes sense,” said Gates. “After all, we found both driving licences on Michael Foreman’s body.”
“Okay,” said Gardener. “When you return to the airports take the photos with you again.”
“Might be better if we take USB sticks with digital copies,” said Gates.
“Yes,” said Longstaff. “It’s just possible that if they have returned using normal IDs, one or all of them just might have a criminal record for something that we’ve missed. Even if it was under completely different names, we might get lucky.”
“Surprising how that can happen,” said Frank Thornton. “But for a stroke of luck and a slip-up we might never have caught the Yorkshire Ripper.”
“I know it’s a tough job,” said Gardener, “I really do, and I know what great work you guys are doing. All the legwork and no results can be discouraging, but all I can say is keep at it. Something will break somewhere.”
In order to cover another subject, Gardener asked about the meeting with the bank manager.
“I was on that one, sir,” said Sarah Gates, “but he’s away until tomorrow morning. I said I’d be back first thing. His secretary put it in the diary.”
“Okay. It’s not ideal but it will have to do.” He made a note on the whiteboard under the “actions” list.
“As we’ve already mentioned, we also need to consider the theory that someone out there might have them,” said Gardener, “that we might very well have a vigilante to deal with.”
That wasn’t something the team relished. Not only would it make their job harder, trying to find the people they really wanted, but it suggested a completely unknown entity could be at work.
“Might answer for why their homes had been cleaned out,” said Rawson.
“Which still gives us the problem of knowing who has done what,” said Frank Thornton. “It still might be them lot, or one of them. Were they originally clever enough to see the writing on the wall, and cleared out themselves?”
“It’s a possibility,” said Anderson.
“If it is a vigilante,” said Reilly, “he or she has been pretty bloody thorough, especially if they’ve been able to find out as much as they have, and stripped the houses, therefore removing any or all evidence.”
“Good point, Sean,” said Gardener. “One might even go so far as to say it has a hint of military precision about it.”
The room descended into a strained silence. The task facing them was almost insurmountable. There was so much to do and it felt like a sheer race against time, with no idea how long they had, especially if a vigilante was at work.
Chapter Thirty
Alan Braithwaite had reached the end of the village where it met the main A65. Spike had done what he wanted, so the pair of them turned back. The weather was reasonably mild for the time of year, but a nice hot cuppa and a cooked breakfast before taking care of business would go down a treat.
As he entered the village he noticed the Frosts had had the wall repaired. And Wendy Higgins was approaching with Pouch.
“Morning, Alan, how are you this morning?”
“I’m well, thank you, Wendy. You?”
“Taking each day as it comes, but we’re okay.” As she said it she glanced down at Pouch.
“I was just looking at the wall, I see they’ve repaired it,” said Braithwaite.
“Yes, I noticed that yesterday. Well, it’s been three months and they’ve had the funerals for them both.”
“I notice the Hunters’ house has a ‘sold’ sign on it.”
“Oh, it’s gone, has it?” asked Wendy. “I spoke to David’s brother, Roger, recently. He said there were a couple of interested parties.”
“I expect he’s glad to be rid of the place,” said Braithwaite, “it can’t hold any good memories for him.”
The dogs sat beside their owners as if they had all the respect in the world for them, no matter how long the conversation went on.
“Terrible business,” said Wendy, “have they caught anyone yet, do you know?”
“Not to my knowledge,” said Braithwaite, bitterly. “People like that should be strung up. Two of the nicest people you could ever wish to meet, cut short in the prime of their life. Three months it’s been and not a bloody word. Wouldn’t have happened in my day. A short spell–”
Wendy Higgins interrupted him. “Yes, I know, a short spell in the army wouldn’t hurt them.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “It didn’t do you any harm. You said so last time, Alan. And I seem to remember telling you that your army days were behind you. You should leave it to the police.”
“Don’t seem to be getting anywhere, do they?”
“I doubt that will last forever. I can see you still have the bit between your teeth, Alan. How long were you in the army?”
“Twenty-five years.”
“You must have seen some action.”
“You could say that. Made it to the rank of sergeant. I wouldn’t mind showing them lot some action.”
Pouch suddenly stood up and yawned, as if his patience had worn thin.
Wendy Higgins must have noticed. “Well, like I said, there’s no point you getting all revved up about it. I’m sure the police will get to the bottom of it eventually.”
Braithwaite nodded but he doubted it.
As they bade each other a good morning, Wendy Higgins turned and addressed him again. “Was that a new car I saw you driving yesterday?”
He smiled, gently. “Yes, as you keep saying, I ought to take things easy. When you get to my time of life a bit of comfort goes a long way.”
Wendy laughed and agreed. “Love the colour. Reminds me of a car my husband and I had when we were first married. British racing green I think the colour was.”
Chapter Thirty-one
At the DCI’s request, Gardener and Reilly were in an early morning meeting – a breakfast meeting it was called, though no one had anything in front of them. Reilly’s stomach rumbled. Gardener felt pretty sure he would have eaten, and it was merely a protest.
Despite Briggs being the senior ranking officer, his office was no more luxurious than Gardener’s. He had two desks, four chairs – apart from his own – and two filing cabinets. The room was carpeted, magnolia painted walls, with a number of prints attached. Apart from his computer and printer, Briggs had photos of his wife on the desk, and a coffee percolator. A small radio on the window ledge was tuned to BBC Radio Leeds.
Briggs had the policy book in front of him, in which Gardener had filed his report of the Michael Foreman incident.
Glancing at Gardener, he said, “Have we been a little economical with the truth here, Stewart?”
“We’re not sure what you mean, Mr Briggs,” replied Reilly.
“Which means you have.”
Gardener took Briggs through everything they had found to date, emphasising that Michael Foreman was connected to the night of the hit and run and the death of David and Ann Marie Hunter.
Briggs glanced at the report again. Reading through it he quoted from a couple of paragraphs before lifting his head to meet Gardener’s eyes.
“What kind of shape was Michael Foreman in?”
“He’d seen better days,” said Reilly.
“From what we saw,” said Gardener, “he was suffering. He had blistering red skin and there was a lot of swelling to his
body.”
“Had he been beaten up?”
“Didn’t look that way to me. His tongue was swollen, so Fitz reckoned he would have had serious respiratory problems, nose and sinus pain.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“No, all he managed was a scream. Fitz seemed to think that they would almost certainly find fluid in his lungs. There was no sign of diarrhoea or vomiting, though he would have had abdominal pain.”
“What were his movements like when you saw him?”
“Erratic,” replied Gardener. “His walking wasn’t coordinated. When he was on the ground his body was trembling.”
Briggs placed the report on his desk. “You know what’s coming now, don’t you? I have to ask this as a matter of form, did you at any point think to call it a Hazchem scene? Because it seems obvious to me that this man has been given something, and the first thing that springs to mind is a nerve agent. You realise how serious that could be?”
“I do, sir, but in my considered opinion it wasn’t a Hazchem scene. In Fitz’s opinion he’d been injected with something and despite the symptoms it wasn’t considered to be contagious.”
“Has Fitz confirmed that?”
“Not yet.”
“So it still could be,” said Briggs, sighing. He turned to Reilly. “What’s your opinion?”
“I’m with the boss on this one.”
“Christ,” sighed Briggs, “you two are like glue. I’m not asking if you’re siding with him. I’m not stupid enough to think you’d do any different. What I’m asking is, what’s your opinion on what he was given; you’ve probably had more experience than anyone in this field.”
“Judging by everything I saw, the staggering, the breathing problems, the obvious pain, it could have been any number of things but I don’t think anyone has anything to worry about. Besides which, we’ve heard nothing else.”
Gardener realised Reilly was also being economical with his summary because he hadn’t seen any of those things. His partner had arrived on the scene after Michael Foreman had died.
Gardener intervened. “If I’d thought that it was a Hazchem scene I’d have called it.”
“Okay,” said Briggs, signing off the policy report, “there’s no point labouring over it. I accept your decision. You seem to have it all in hand and you’ve got your team chasing up leads, but for God’s sake, keep me posted.” The senior ranking officer glanced up again and met Gardener’s eyes. “If anything develops from this it won’t just be your badge, we’ll all be signing on.”
“In all fairness,” said Gardener, “if anything was going to develop it would have done by now. We’d have had half the population of Leeds filling every hospital corridor, and it would be all over the TV.”
“Fair point,” said Briggs. “I did see something on the news last night but they were very vague.”
“That’s down to me,” said Gardener. “I made sure the press couldn’t see too much of the scene on Bond Street. You know what they’re like.”
Reilly took over. “If we’d let them lot see what was going on they’d have started an epidemic on their own. The marquee was up in record time, and the boss man here said very little at the press conference.”
Briggs’ expression was priceless, as his bottom jaw nearly hit the desk. “You held a press conference?”
“There was no one else,” retorted Gardener.
“You could have let him do it,” said Briggs, pointing to Reilly.
“Are you kidding? There’s no telling what he’d have said.”
“You’re too hard on me,” said Reilly, “I speak the same language as you lot.”
“I don’t doubt it,” replied Gardener, “we’re just not quite sure on the order of the words.”
Briggs laughed and closed the policy book.
“Okay, keep me informed of everything that happens. I know I’m changing subjects now, any news on your missing person case?”
Gardener cringed. He hated not being able to solve a problem, or apprehend a guilty criminal, but he knew that it was simply impossible to catch everyone. It may even be one of those cold cases that he would keep in an office drawer and take with him to his grave.
“Nothing, I’m afraid. As you know, he disappeared one night four months ago, never to be seen again.”
“He’ll turn up,” said Reilly, “bad pennies always do.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about it, Stewart,” said Briggs. “We can’t catch everyone. Someone is always going to slip the net; but he has a track record, doesn’t he? Maybe five years down the line he’ll show up somewhere with one of the travelling fairs and we might have our chance to nab him.”
“Maybe,” said Gardener, “but how many more women are going to suffer at his hands?”
“How many victims suffer every day in someone’s hands?” countered Briggs. “We’ll never apprehend them all, Stewart. But despite all that, never lose sight of the fact that you two do a bloody good job. You’re out there all weathers and your dedication to the job and your team is as good as anyone I’ve ever seen, so don’t beat yourselves up.”
It wasn’t very often Briggs gave out compliments so to hear that was music to Gardener’s ears.
Reilly jumped in quick, changing subjects again. “How was London? Anything important we need to know?”
“No,” sighed Briggs, placing his elbows on the desk and arching his hands, “usual stuff about police budget cuts, blaming it on anything but the truth–”
The phone cut short whatever Briggs was going to say. After three rings he answered.
“Briggs.” The DCI’s expression darkened. “Yes, he’s with me now.”
Briggs passed the phone to Gardener. “Who is it?” he asked.
“Williams, front desk.”
Gardener took the phone. “David?”
“Just taken a phone call, sir, something I think you should know about.”
Gardener’s adrenaline started to race. “Go on.”
“We have another body on Butts Court.”
Gardener’s heart sunk. His expression must have changed considerably because Briggs was mouthing the words “what’s wrong”.
“Where exactly is it?”
“Virtually the same place,” replied Williams.
“How can that be?” asked Gardener. “We had a police presence there all night.”
“I don’t know all the finer details, sir.”
“Who found it?”
“Lady called Elaine Kirk, she works for Slaters Menswear on Albion Street. She came out for a cigarette and found him.”
“Same state?” questioned Gardener. “Staggering around?”
“No, definitely not. By the look of him he hasn’t been capable of that for weeks. If what she’s saying is true, you’ll need to see this one for yourself. And my gut feeling tells me it’s connected to yesterday’s victim, which is why I’m calling you.”
“Is he still alive?”
“Just.”
“Have you despatched a PC to guard the scene?”
“Yes, and I’ve called an ambulance.”
“Good, we’re on our way.”
Gardener replaced the receiver, wondering what the hell he was walking into, and whether or not there really was a connection to the death of Michael Foreman.
“What’s happened?” asked Briggs.
“Another body on Butts Court; still alive, but only just.”
“But you’re already on two murder cases. I can’t let you have another.”
“I don’t buy that, sir. My gut feeling tells me this is all part and parcel of the case we’re already investigating from yesterday.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“Then I’ll hand it over.”
Gardener could see that Briggs wasn’t happy but he might have to roll with it.
“What state is he in? Did Williams say?” asked Reilly.
“Pretty bad, by all accounts, but this one isn’t walking or staggering
anywhere,” replied Gardener.
“Where is he?”
“Behind the shops?”
“How the hell did he get there with a police surveillance?” asked Reilly.
“Let’s go and find out, shall we, Sean?”
Both detectives rose and left the office.
Briggs shouted before they disappeared, “If it’s anything like yesterday I want the Hazchem officers in. I don’t want any chances taken, or any mistakes made with this one.”
Gardener nodded before leaving but didn’t reply.
Chapter Thirty-two
Shooting down Albion Street, onto Short Street, the two officers arrived at Butts Court to find it sealed off by a police car with flashing blue lights. As the vehicle blocked one side of the road, a PC stood in the gap at the other. A crowd of onlookers had already gathered, mostly from the unit across the street that had four loading bays, two of which had tractor units and trailers parked up.
Reilly pulled the pool car into the gap the PC vacated and both men jumped out, flashing warrant cards. Gardener heard raised voices, and the whine of the forklifts, banging about as they loaded and unloaded the pallets on the trucks.
“Where is it?” asked Gardener.
The PC pointed. “Down there, on the right, sir.”
“How bad?” Reilly asked as both officers started to run.
“Bad enough for me to stay where I am.”
Stepping to his right, around the corner of a building, at the rear of the shops, Gardener noticed a ramp leading to an underground car park. In front of him, the rear of all the shops had been sealed off with concrete posts, accompanied by wire fencing. He remembered years previously that it had been a popular area with the down and outs in Leeds, all of whom congregated here overnight.
Gardener noticed another police car further down Butts Court, which were very possibly the two officers who had been on overnight surveillance. He needed to talk to them but it could wait.
On the ground in front of him, huddled into what could only be described as a pile of rags – like a down and out – was the body. Standing behind the wire fence, a shop assistant cowered against the wall of the shop, arms folded, and as white as a sheet. She had a cigarette in her left hand but at the moment no attempt was being made to smoke it.