Payback

by R. C. Bridgestock

‘It’s as good a place to start as any,’ said Wilkie. ‘The concrete floor has certainly been scrubbed clean recently.’

  ‘Although Myers might have washed things on the ground, the roof of the tunnel might have traces of blood, or other, splashing on it, which may possibly confirm our suspicions, Neal suggested earlier. He’s got it in hand,’ she said.

  ‘And it’s highly unlikely that he would be aware of the possibility that the roof may hold clues,’ Mike said.

  Annie’s sudden attendance at Charley’s side was unexpected. The young detective had just arrived back from Gibson’s. ‘I’ve just seen Danny Ray skulking about on the A62, at Peggy-in-the-Woods. He flagged my car down and asked me what was going on. I hate to say this, but do you think there’s a grass amongst us? How come he knew we were there?’

  Charley knew that Danny appeared to be able to smell a story a mile off, but her instinct told her this was different. ‘What did you say to him?’

  Annie held up crossed fingers and grimaced. ‘I lied. I told him we’d got information that somebody had been cultivating cannabis.’

  ‘Good, the last thing we want right now is the press there and more unhelpful headlines. Give him enough rope, as they say…’

  Gibson’s Horticultural was set back far enough from the main road to give them privacy, but if someone were to visit, there would be no denying the police activity. Why would Danny Ray be visiting, Charley wondered. Could it be that he had been following her? At least Annie had dispatched him for now, and if he made an attempt to follow her in, the static unit at the gates would stop him in his tracks.

  A dedicated team had been despatched to Solomon Myers’ flat and the good news for some, although not all, was that they didn’t have to smash the door down. What would the flat reveal, wondered Charley as she headed over there. The realisation that Danny might be following her made her check, and then double check, her rear-view mirror repeatedly en route. His turning up at the scene of the first murder, then at the pub when she met with the pathologist after the second murder post-mortem and now near the scene of the arrest, was too much of a coincidence. With all her senses heightened, she would hopefully become aware if someone was following her.

  The traffic was heavy through the town centre and her mind wandered, driving on automatic pilot. She wondered if the officers going into Solomon Myers’ flat would disturb anyone. There was no way of knowing if there would be anyone within. Gaining entry into a person’s house was not as simple as it had been before health and safety became a priority. Where would the rules for health and safety stop? If you hadn’t been on a course to learn how to gain entry through a door, you couldn’t use the door ram! And the use of slash-proof gloves; a must! However had the Peelers managed in the past without the mountains of paperwork? Common sense, that’s how it had worked, but because of the possibility of litigation all that had changed and, like everyone else, she was forced to conform.

  The photographs were being taken by Neal Rylatt and his team of CSIs when she arrived, and the search had begun. It was busy, it was organised, it was teamwork. The smell of bleach wafted along the corridor and led her into an orderly kitchen. The dull, white background of the faded linoleum gave little contrast to the cream and brown. The cream cooker and fridge blended with the patterned floral wallpaper that she knew to have been popular in the eighties. A small toaster, a kettle and a microwave sat neatly on the melamine worktop. A wooden tree mug holder had four tea-stained mugs hanging from it. The microwave was old and tatty, but, like the rest of the appliances on show, it looked relatively clean. The bins were empty and contained new liners. The cupboards held a few bits of odd crockery and some food, mainly tins of soup and milk puddings.

  The kitchen led onto a small, square lounge. A large screen television with a games console on the coffee table dominated the living space. Again, although the furniture was dated it was neat and tidy. Piled high between the wall and the TV was a variety of DVDs including children’s animation and porn. She saw a suited and booted police officer taking a DVD out of the player and popping it in an evidence bag and felt compelled to ask him what it was that Solomon had been watching. But she stopped herself. This was no time for idle chit-chat. She had a job to do and so had he – and she could check it soon enough. Power leads trailed from behind the television set, possibly for a laptop. But, if that was so, where was the device? Another suited officer sat on the floor, bagging and tagging computer games that he had retrieved from a cabinet. Action, Adventure, Sci-fi … She frowned. What else had she hoped to glean from his recreational activities? Paperwork relating to a mobile phone gave them a number, but as yet they hadn’t found the device at his home address, or on his person when he was arrested.

  A small anglepoise lamp sat on an occasional table next to a large alarm clock, within reaching distance of the settee. Was this where he slept, she asked herself? The answer came more quickly than she expected when, standing at the bedroom door, she saw the dishevelled room. It was in stark contrast to the orderliness of the other rooms: untidy and littered, not only with bits of clothing, but with upturned furniture, overturned drawers and loose-leaf papers strewn all over the double bed. The bed covers beneath, however, looked newly neat. It didn’t add up.

  Charley hadn’t expected Solomon to be house-proud. Without a doubt, the bedroom was out of synch. Why?

  Wilkie pointed out a packet of condoms, which lay alongside an empty glass vase on the windowsill. ‘Durex. The same as those found at the scene of Stewart Johnson’s body,’ he said eagerly.

  Charley’s stomach flipped. ‘You know they’re ten a penny round here. Durex is a make found in every pub machine from here to Manchester.’

  ‘What if we can prove they came from the same machine?’ he asked eagerly. ‘Bag it and tag it?’

  Charley put her gloved hand to her brow. ‘Of course, we bag it and tag it,’ she said, a razor-sharp edge of anger and frustration in her voice. ‘Find me a mobile,’ she told the search team. ‘I’m going back over to the search at Gibson’s. From there I’m heading back to the incident room if you need me.’

  Charley dropped her coverall and overshoes in an evidence bag at the door, where an officer was guarding the entrance. As she walked down the corridor, she rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck, another habit she had inherited from her dad, and that her mother had hated. She smiled at the memory of her scolding and wished she could hear her voice, angry or not, just one more time. She called the elevator and looking upwards watched the numbers counting down as the lift gravitated towards the basement. Inhaling deeply, she ran a hand over her face and proceeded to tap her foot on the tiled floor. A tall, thin woman was standing at the window that overlooked the car park, her back to Charley. Her elbows on the windowsill, she stared outwards, a cigarette perched between two stiff fingers, burning away without any help at all. Charley pressed the elevator button once more and, taking her eyes off the illuminated numbers, stuck her hand in her handbag where she busily rummaged for her car keys. The woman coughed once, twice and three times. She moved the cigarette away from her and the smoke floated in Charley’s direction. ‘Should you be doing that here?’ Charley asked, looking around for a sign that would tell her otherwise.

  The woman gave a low throaty groan and stood up. ‘Probably not,’ she said, looking over her shoulder.

  As the redhead’s eyes focused, their eyes met and a flash of recognition passed between them. Charley hastily turned away.

  ‘Go on, tell me what’s the weird bastard been up to?’

  ‘Not sure yet,’ said Charley, checking the situation of the elevator which remained at basement level.

  There was a pause. The woman studied Charley. ‘Actually, you just missed him. He left minutes before you arrived.’

  She turned towards the woman. ‘Really? You saw the man who lives in the flat here, today?’

  The woman took one last puff, swallowed and squeezed the flame from the end of her cigarette. Throwing the
butt to the floor, she rubbed it with the sole of her feather-topped slipper. ‘Well, I didn’t actually see him. But I heard him moving around and the door slam when he left. Bloody heavy doors, fire doors. Wish the walls were as thick! There’s no mistaking when your neighbour’s at home in this place.’ Her eyes looked up to the ceiling.

  ‘That’s very helpful, thank you. Tell me, what makes you call him weird?’ asked Charley.

  The woman sniffed, pulled her hoodie sleeve over her hand and ran it under her nose. ‘Let’s put it this way. There’s no mistaking the noises for a start. I hear them a lot in my line of work. I can even tell when they’re faking it … been there, done that, bought the T-shirt – even worn the fucking socks.’

  Charley refused to be drawn in, but now knew the last time she had seen the woman: in the Bar Amsterdam.

  ‘Does he go out a lot, the man who lives in the flat?’ She tried to avoid eye contact.

  ‘He’s never in. Apart from during the night, that is.’

  Certain as she could be that the young woman didn’t recall where she had seen Charley previously, she put her hand out to shake hers. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Charley Mann, Yorkshire CID. Would you mind speaking to one of my officers and telling them what you’ve just told me?’

  The woman’s mouth turned down at the corners. She nodded. ‘Guess so. Do I know you from somewhere?’ she said. ‘You look familiar. My name’s Sunny.’

  ‘Have I locked you up?’

  Sunny screwed her nose up. ‘Yeah. Probably.’

  Charley felt relieved. ‘Are there any particular dates that you remember, when you’d have said he was behaving weird?’

  Sunny pulled a face. ‘I can ask Chastity, my friend, if she remembers the date – the night we were entertaining … like you do.’ Sunny winked an eye. ‘His telly was on so loud the men were getting randy before we’d managed to drink the good stuff they’d brought with them and that’ll never do.’ Her smiled turned to a grimace. ‘Then the screaming began … The guys, they got a bit jittery. Chastity was so fucked-off she was going to call the police herself, but business is business. Then it stopped as suddenly as it had started. We didn’t hear anything more.’ Sunny leaned in towards Charley and her voice turned to a whisper. ‘Can you get him thrown out of ’ere, then we might get someone normal. Y’know, like Brad Pitt.’ Sunny’s natural smile was infectious.

  ‘Have you ever seen anyone else with him?’ asked Charley.

  She shook her head. ‘No, never … Told you he was fuckin’ weird.’

  A combination of several scenarios ran around each after the other in Charley’s mind. Who else might have a key to his flat? If Mr Gibson said he was a loner, and so did his neighbour, maybe he had family that neither had met? Someone who looked after him, or looked out for him? There was one thing for certain, it was an impossibility that Solomon Myers had been at his flat at the time Sunny had stated because, since he’d left for work that morning, he’d either been at work, at the hospital, or locked up.

  So, who had?

  Chapter 13

  At Gibson’s, the pre-planned search was well underway. Charley watched the suited and booted search team crawling over the sites identified to be of interest. Like ants on a mission – hurrying this way, scurrying that, searching, peering, poking, probing, scrutinising – all were eager to make the ultimate find that would secure the prosecution of the perpetrator of the crime. They came together now and then, pinching, pawing their finds. Were they valuable to the investigation or not was the burning question. Ultimately, that wasn’t their decision to make. As SIO, it was Charley’s. Bagged and tagged clothing or computer device: it would be a waiting game to see if any item was deemed worthy of further scrutiny by the forensic experts – and if the budget would allow it.

  Charley spoke briefly to members of the search team. Then, secure in the knowledge that they were doing all they could, she headed back to the incident room where she was in a position to converse with them all via the airways, liaise when necessary with the powers that be and discuss the interview strategy for Solomon Myers. One way or another, today they would find out the extent of Solomon Myers’ involvement in the murders.

  The incident room had been informed by the custody suite sergeant that Myers had been interviewed by the on-call doctor and deemed fit to be detained and, on her return to Peel Street, Charley was told he was presently having a consultation with the duty solicitor.

  Apart from a couple of the HOLMES team members tapping away at the keyboards, inputting data, the incident room was quiet, as it should have been. It meant the rest were out working at one location or another and, unless there was anything that needed immediate attention, the results of their labour would be discussed at the end-of-day team debrief. Charley felt her energy levels dipping and, in the absence of a canteen, she headed through the office towards the kitchenette with its promise of coffee and a biscuit if she was lucky. As she passed Wilkie’s desk, she noticed a bottle of whisky on it, and not just any bottle of whisky, but a Glenmorangie eighteen-year-old single malt. A small card was attached.

  Tattie Tate, headphones covering her ears and appearing to be all-consumed by the audio tape she was transcribing, spoke suddenly, much to Charley’s surprise. ‘Came this morning,’ she said, nodding her head in the direction of Wilkie’s desk without shifting her gaze from her computer screen. ‘Her with the French accent from the front desk brought it up,’ she continued.

  It was no good replying as Tattie wouldn’t hear her, so Charley bent and touched the card very lightly at its corner to enable her to read the writing thereon. ‘Simply, thank you,’ it said.

  A mug of hot coffee in hand and a ginger biscuit in her mouth, Charley retraced her steps from the kitchenette back to her office. She was in a speculative mood. Was the expensive gift for services received from an officer in her incident room? Everything about it suggested to her it had been bought to make an impression from a very grateful source.

  Ricky-Lee entered the room whistling cheerfully.

  Tattie, taking her headphones off, immediately frowned. ‘I hate whistling. My father always said it was a pastime for the lower classes.’

  Charley turned her head in Ricky-Lee’s direction and silently raised an eyebrow indicating the large, sturdy box on Wilkie’s desk. He stopped and immediately changed his tune to a long, low whistle.

  ‘What the hell did he do to deserve that?’ he said. Opening the box, he took out a shapely, substantial glass bottle. ‘A superb example of the aesthetic,’ he said, knowledgeably.

  Charley was impressed.

  ‘I swear I could just about pound a nail into a two-by-four with this thing.’

  Tattie sat back in her chair waiting for the document she had been typing to print out. ‘I don’t advise using that or any other whisky bottle as a carpentry tool,’ she said.

  ‘Even the stopper capping it off is class…’ Ricky-Lee continued with total disregard of Tattie’s remark.

  Everything about the gift on DC Connor’s desk troubled Charley, but it would be quite some time before she would see him to be able to address the issue. Evidence-gathering was a long and meticulous process and he was now at HQ garage with Gibson’s truck, waiting to speak to the forensic advisor to see if they could take a look over it as a matter of urgency.

  Sitting alone in her office, having informed the family liaison officers for both murders of Myers’ arrest, to be passed on to the relevant parties, Charley found herself feeling somewhat deflated, distanced as she was from the hands-on searches. She hated this part of the job that the rank of detective inspector inflicted upon her, the part that meant she had to be at the hub, relying on information being fed to her, to keep her up to date.

  She called Annie in and they immersed themselves in the planning of the strategy for the initial interview with Solomon Myers.

  ‘I wish we had some information that would enable us to get into his ribs,’ said Annie. No sooner had she finished the sente
nce than Charley’s phone rang with information that would make for an extremely interesting forty-five-minute interview with the prisoner. In Solomon Myers’ work locker they’d found a long, brown, matted wig and female clothing. The information from the search team at his home address told her they’d found a mobile phone down the back of the cushions on the settee. It wasn’t charged so it wasn’t known when it had last been used, but it was a start.

  But the third piece of news was more than the interviewers could have hoped for. The film found in the DVD player included the murder of a transvestite.

  Michael Parish, the duty solicitor representing Solomon Myers, was small and had an extremely long, thin neck. A studious-looking man in his thirties, he sat on a hard, plastic chair, his bony elbow on the interview room table. He held two fingers to his temple and in silence, head down, he read through the handwritten notes Charley assumed he had made during his time with the prisoner in his cell. Her eyes were drawn to the deep, pink vee on the bridge of Michael’s nose and whilst she waited for Annie to set up for the recording of the interview, she wondered how it had got there, since he wore his glasses way down at the end of his nose now.

  The detectives sat at the opposite side of the desk from the solicitor and his client, case files in front of them. Charley sieved through her file slowly and in silence before they began. Parish sat upright, his serious grey-green eyes raised to the ceiling, as he waited patiently, in the shadow of a nervous-looking Solomon Myers who was checking out the panic strip, the soundproofing and the video camera. Solomon looked bigger, more muscular than he had at his place of work, towering over the little man at his side.

  Charley cleared her throat, snuggled her chair nearer to the table and commenced the interview by doing the necessary introductions for the recording. She read out the caution and told the men the reason for Solomon Myers’ arrest.