She moved in close, re-read the articles.
Each shooter committed suicide.
Was Zac Williams a ‘suicide by cop?’
The term had been born in the USA, the tag for those who deliberately and by design left a police officer with no option but to kill them.
Did Williams put his own plan into action? Had he been incapable of taking his own life?
Julie Trescothick poked her head through the doorway. ‘Scary isn’t it?’
Sam was still staring at the cuttings.
‘Yes, but it also shows lots of planning. He hasn’t printed these off while we were outside and planning is typical of this type of killer.’
‘But why?’
‘Why plan or why do it in the first place?’
‘Why do it?’
Sam finally took her eyes off the wall.
‘That’s the six-million-dollar question Julie and we might never find the answer.’
Sam knew the research that found some shooters had experienced a major trigger moment, an event where they saw themselves as a victim. That could be anything…an issue with their partner, something in the workplace. Some, but not many, had an ideological motivation.
Sam inhaled slowly. She needed to keep an open mind. It would be too easy to walk away thinking ‘multiple murder and suicide by cop’.
All the signs might be pointing that way but she still had to find the proof.
What had been Williams’ trigger moment? Marcus?
Raw jealousy might explain why he killed him and Lucy but the others?
Was there a link between the victims or were they just in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Sam stepped towards the cuttings and focused, on another mass shooting in another part of the UK.
‘Remember that spree killer in Cumbria, Derrick Bird? There were a few possible triggers but in every one of them he saw himself as the victim.’
Bird had killed 12 people and wounded another 11 in 2010 before killing himself.
Losing his job and girlfriend, a dispute over a family will and a tax investigation were all in play, but Bird’s ‘trigger’ had never been fully established.
One thing was certain. Bird had a firearm licence. Zac Williams did not.
So how did Williams get a rifle?
This was Britain not the USA. Guns were available but you had to know where to look and who to ask. Right now, Sam would need some convincing Zac Williams had those kinds of contacts.
Sam’s head jerked upwards at a creaking noise, faint but out of place in the house.
‘What’s that?’
‘What?’ Julie said, her head following Sam’s, eyeing the yellowing ceiling.
Sam moved out of the kitchen, looked up the stairs. Julie followed.
‘I heard a noise.’ Sam said as they stood in silence. ‘We have anybody upstairs?’
Julie shook her head.
Doubt began scratching away at Sam, that irritating itch signaling something was wrong.
Chapter 16
Jim Melia was standing outside 2 Malvern Close watching all the activity when Sam walked out of the house.
‘Some Halloween party this. I feel like I’m on a film set and Bruce Willis is about to emerge from a building.’
Sam snapped, didn’t bother hiding her annoyance at Jim’s insensitivity.
‘The ‘Die Hard’ movies are set at Christmas.’
He picked up on it immediately.
‘What have we got then?’ he asked, eyes darting away from Sam.
‘Two bodies in the house. No official IDs yet. One believed to be Zac Williams who we think is the shooter, shot by the police. Dead female, early twenties, probably, his girlfriend Lucy Spragg.’
‘Okay,’ Jim said. ‘And here.’
He nodded in the direction of the white tents.
‘Nearest is Paul Adams, one of ours.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’
Sam nodded, screwed her lips together before speaking again.
‘Further up the road is who we believe to be Marcus Worthington-Hotspur.’
‘You’re kidding?’
Jim Melia’s jaw had dropped and he stood mouth open.
‘Why? Do you know him?’
‘If it’s who I think it is, his father’s a Mason. Same lodge as me.’
Jim stopped, choosing his next words carefully.
‘Difficult chap…a tad brash.’
Sam smiled at the pathologist’s language, PG Wodehouse suddenly in her head. Jim Melia could have walked straight from the set of ‘Jeeves and Wooster’.
‘Rumour has it his birth surname was just plain Worthington,’ Jim was saying now. ‘Apparently added Hotspur to give himself a few more social graces.’
‘As in Tottenham?’ Sam said.
Jim raised his eyebrows. ‘Not football. Well not quite. Henry Percy. Also known as Harry Hotspur. Medieval nobleman. Born Northumberland. Died 1403 at the Battle of Shrewsbury.’
‘Wow.’
‘His descendants had land near Tottenham’s first football ground, hence the Hotspur.’
Sam shook her head, marveling at the history lesson.
‘What line of business is his father in?’
‘All a bit mysterious, although he does own property, lots of property,’ Jim told her.
Sam filed the information.
‘Over there,’ Sam nodded to her right, ‘is Joey Sanderson, known to one and all as ‘Fatty Sanderson.’ Not exactly original but…’
‘Right let’s get cracking,’ Jim said, walking towards the door. ‘I’ve already got one waiting at the mortuary. Killed by impatience. Thought he was faster than the bus.’
Sam spent an hour with Jim examining the bodies, the pathologist painstaking and thorough.
His task would be to log all injuries – external and internal – and provide causes of death. Bullet wounds alone didn’t mean death by gunfire.
Others would help Sam complete the complex picture. The direction of travel and trajectory of the bullets would be reconstructed by the ballistic experts, which in turn would be corroborated by any forthcoming witness evidence.
Plans and computer 3D imagery would eventually be prepared, providing a visual account to assist both the on-going investigation and any subsequent judicial hearing.
Sam and Jim knelt next to Zac Williams.
‘Any reason for the rabbit suit apart from the obvious of hiding his identity?’ Jim asked.
‘All the family loved the Jimmy Stewart film Harvey,’ Sam said, ‘He even named his kid Elwood.’
‘A classic,’ Jim said. ‘The story of a Pooka who takes the form of a six foot plus invisible white rabbit.’
Sam looked away, briefly closed her eyes. Was he so obsessed with Harvey he was paying tribute in his final act? No need to disguise yourself if you’re planning to die. Disguises only matter if you want to escape.
Given the gallery of slaughter across Williams’ wall, you had to doubt he planned on leaving the house alive.
The ‘Suicide by Cop’ statistic was in Sam’s head again…all perpetrators young males, 87% of them making suicide warnings before or during the incident.
As far as she was aware, Zac Williams had given no such warning.
Most mass shooters also made some sort of threat to someone, either directly or in another’s presence. Had Williams?
She looked back at the body.
The crime scene investigators had placed each hand in a clear bag; cable ties securing them to his wrists ensured no forensic evidence would be lost when the body was moved to the mortuary. His skin and the hands of his suit would be swabbed for gunshot residue.
Sam knew that the residue could be lost within hours from his skin but could remain on clothing for years. If there was residue, she reasoned, most, if not all, would be on the fake fur.
Jim lifted Williams’ hands simultaneously, turning them slowly, examining each.
The rabbit suit was in pristine condi
tion but each palm had a small clump of fur missing; not a neatly cut patch, too ragged for that, too frayed around the edges, more like a clump of hair ripped from a woman’s scalp in a toilet fight.
‘What do you make of that?’ Sam asked, nodding at the hands.
‘No idea,’ Jim said. ‘That’s your department.’
She stood up, walked over to the rifle, and knelt alongside it.
She didn’t need a microscope to see the strands of fur on the barrel and around the trigger guard.
Tara Paxman was the only non-evacuated occupant of Malvern Close, her proximity to the shooter’s house considered too dangerous to remove her.
‘How long have you known Paul?’ Sam asked, her direct opening question ignoring the usual effort to relax a witness and build a rapport. Time was too short.
The flared sleeves of Tara’s red, silk, knee-length dressing gown danced in tandem with her shaking body. Mascara had run onto her cheeks, her eyes like a panda’s.
‘He’s dead, isn’t he? Dead because of that crazy fuck next door.’
Tara’s eyes dropped to the floor, her hands ran through her hair.
Sam looked at the bed-hair bob, not a root in sight amongst the jet-black. She took in the fake tan on Tara’s arms and legs, the perfectly painted fingers and toes.
Sam wondered what she was wearing under the dressing gown. Something styled for sex not comfort, she reasoned.
Paul Adams hadn’t come here for a chat.
The question may have been direct but Sam’s voice was full of empathy. ‘Have you known Paul long?’
‘A few months.’
Tara started to cry.
Sam looked around. The room was clean, the furniture new and a huge TV dominated one wall.
A dozen roses were on the marble fireplace.
Christ, I hope there’s not a card from Paul declaring his undying love. Not on his wife’s birthday.
Sam changed tack, spoke faster.
‘Do you live alone Tara?’
A nod of the head.
The next question was out before the nod had finished.
‘Where do you work?’
Tara looked up, rubbed her brown eyes and crossed one leg over the other.
Sam could see the attraction.
‘I don’t. Dropped out of uni.’
Sam’s eyes again drifted around the room…thick red carpet, white sheepskin rug in front of the fire, oak drinks cabinet with an alabaster statute of Aphrodite on top of it.
On the wall above the cabinet were three small provocative prints in gilt frames, Toulouse-Lautrec’s decadent Parisian scenes in the late 19th century. Had he stuck to painting he wouldn’t have died of alcoholism and syphilis.
‘So how do you afford all of this?’
Tara stared at Sam, didn’t speak.
‘Did Paul pay you for your services?’
The question landed like a punch.
Tara’s legs uncrossed in a flash, upper body shooting forward. Her words bubbled with aggression.
‘I never charged him,’ she shouted. ‘Never.’
Sam was the mother figure again. ‘Calm down. This is stressful for everybody. So how did you get to know each other?’
They had met in a bar, got chatting and it went from there.
Tara shook her head slowly, cupped her hands around her face, and spoke through the gaps in her fingers. ‘I can’t live here anymore. Not with all this shit.’
‘You called your next door neighbour a crazy fuck?’
Tara looked up into Sam’s eyes, her movements slow, choreographed almost. She stuck out her legs, raised her arms above her head and stretched, fingers pointing at the ceiling, toes pointed towards Sam.
I can see how you manipulate men.
‘I need another drink,’ Tara said. ‘Want one?’
‘No thanks.’
Tara bent down, took the gin balloon off the floor and shimmied over to the drinks cabinet, hips swaying Samba-style in time to the rhythm of the rattling ice cubes.
You’ve recovered quickly.
She poured a large measure of Newcastle Gin, didn’t bother with tonic. Scooped her hand into the ice bucket.
Sam shook her head at Tara’s backside.
You’re wasting your time wiggling that at me love.
‘So,’ Sam said, as Tara sat back down. ‘The crazy fuck?’
‘Jealous. Insanely jealous. Wouldn’t let Lucy go anywhere. And I mean anywhere. Wouldn’t even let her go to the Asda by herself.’
Sam nodded, smiled. Why do so many people around here prefix the name of a supermarket with ‘the’?
Tara hitched up her dressing gown and scratched her thigh, the painted nails moving smooth and slow.
You certainly know how to work it.
‘I’ve seen a photograph of the two of them at a fancy dress,’ Sam said.
‘Yeah, that was round here. Lucy’s mam said that it’s the only photo she’ll have of Zac because you can’t see his face.’
Tara laughed. ‘Her mam’s class and Lucy did look mint that night.’
‘Why do you think it’s him though. Why’s he the crazy one?’
The ice clinked against the side of the glass as Tara took a large mouthful.
‘Lucy thought he’d found out about Marcus. Decent lad him. I introduced him to Lucy.’
‘I thought you said Lucy couldn’t go out by herself.’
‘I introduced them over the back fence. Marcus used to come to see me.’
‘For sex?’
Tara raised the glass again, this time she took a sip.
‘Well I like to think he came for the company.’
‘And sex.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘Can’t remember now.’
‘Any idea where Zac would get a gun.’
Tara put the glass on the floor.
‘No. Whenever he was pissed-up he’d say he’d kill anybody who looked at Lucy.’
‘Ever see him hit anyone.’
‘Only Lucy. Saw him hit her once when they were in the back garden.’
‘Did he ever try to buy your services?’
‘Who? Zac? Don’t be ridiculous. Hasn’t got a pot to piss in. He couldn’t afford me.’
Tara flashed her smile.
‘He never asked?’ Sam said.
Tara reached for the glass, took another sip.
‘Yeah he asked. Course he did. But he had no chance and I told him. No money, no soap and according to Lucy, no technique. I wouldn’t go with him even if he had the money.’
She swallowed the remains of the gin, got up to refill her glass, and returned with another straight up on ice.
Sam waited, said nothing.
‘Mostly it’s older men, married, businessmen,’ Tara said as she sat back down.
‘I’m not cheap and I expect to be taken out. I’m not some slapper from one of the Skinners’ clubs.’
Luke and Mark Skinner, part of the infamous crime family, were in prison on remand, brought down by Sam last December, their trial in two weeks.
‘How do you know about them?’
‘Who doesn’t? Wanted to run me before they went down but I prefer being freelance.’
Sam couldn’t believe it was almost a year since that investigation.
‘How do you get your business? You’ve got no record.’
Tara glared at Sam.
‘Checked already have you?’
‘Of course.’
Sam wasn’t getting into a discussion about police intelligence gathering techniques.
‘So, how do you get your business?’
‘Word of mouth. Plus, discretion guaranteed. You’d be amazed at who I count amongst my regulars. Paul’s not the only copper…lowest ranking though.’
It was Sam’s turn to lean forward.
‘What happened to your discretion? You’ve just admitted you see senior police officers.’
‘But I haven’t t
old you who, or where they’re from have I? Or what gender they are.’
Tara let that one hang a moment before continuing.
‘I travel all around the country. High-end escort, not some twenty-pound-a-time-prostitute. They buy my company. Buy my intelligence.’
‘But you still sleep with them?’
‘If that’s what they want.’
‘No difference in my world then,’ Sam said evenly. ‘You’re still a prostitute, just an expensive one.’
‘I make more in a night than you make in a month.’
So why waste time with Paul?
Sam’s eyes darted up at the ceiling.
‘Did you hear that noise?’ she asked.
‘What noise?’
Sam looked at her, her voice as impatient as the expression on her face.
‘The noise in the roof.’
‘I didn’t hear a thing,’ Tara sipped her gin. ‘But sometimes the birds get in.’
Sam stood up. ‘Mind if I take a look?’
Another sip, eyes raised.
‘I do actually,’ Tara smoothed down her dressing gown. ‘Don’t you need a warrant?’
‘I could get one.’
Sam was bluffing and Tara probably knew it.
The magistrate who would sign a search warrant based on a suspicious noise didn’t exist
‘You best come back when you’ve got one then,’ Tara said coolly. ‘This is bad enough without you poking around my house.’
Chapter 17
Davy Swan drove off as soon as he read the text, grimacing at the high-pitched beeping from the dashboard as Jimmy Marshall battled with the seatbelt.
‘Where we meeting him?’ Marshall asked.
‘Pick up in ten minutes. He’ll be there waiting. There’s no CCTV apparently.’
‘Do those streets still exist?’ Marshall said, tension drying his mouth.
They cruised towards the pick-up point on sidelights only. Marshall checked the internal lights were switched to off-mode at least five times on the short journey. The Man wouldn’t want the car lit up like a beacon when he opened the back door.
They crawled into the designated street, houses and parked cars either side.
A silhouetted figure, head down and dragged along by a panting dog on a taut lead, overtook them.
Lies That Blind Page 10