by Faith Martin
And here he was, still performing the same old circus trick. Wouldn’t it be better to face it, square on at last? To stop being afraid of the bogey-man under the bed and drag him out into the light of day? At least then they’d know what they were dealing with. But what if he’d got it wrong — about everything? After all, there was no proof, none at all, that Jason had done something unthinkable. There were only his suspicions and fears. And he might be way off beam. Wasn’t it that possibility that had kept him silent all these months? To let his best mate realize that he suspected him of doing something utterly awful — when in fact he hadn’t — would kill their friendship stone dead.
Feeling even more nauseous, he swallowed hard. ‘You know I’ll do whatever needs doing if you’re really in a fix, mate,’ Gareth said, watching his friend’s back. He could clearly see Jason’s shoulder blades sticking out underneath the dirty T-shirt. ‘No matter what, I’ll stick by you, Jase,’ he added.
There. He couldn’t say more than that, could he? The offer was there. It had been made. All his friend had to do was take it and . . . But even as he thought it, he felt the tension set like rock in the pit of his stomach, and he wished he’d left the words unsaid.
Because if Jason did unburden his soul — and it was as bad as he suspected — what then? What, exactly, would he, Gareth Proctor, do?
Slowly, Jason’s shoulders hunched in despair. ‘Yeah, I know you would,’ the former soldier said bleakly. ‘That’s what worries me . . .’ he added in a despairing mumble.
Gareth felt his throat go bone dry. A cool sweat broke out on his forehead. And suddenly he knew for sure that there could no longer be any doubt. This was about that bastard Corporal Francis Clyde-Brough.
But even as he opened his mouth to ask, Gareth knew that he didn’t dare actually say the words.
‘Just go, all right,’ Jason said finally, still with his back turned to his friend. He suddenly sounded very sober.
With some difficulty, Gareth managed to get out of the decrepit chair. And still he didn’t dare mention the bastard’s name. Nearly a year dead, and still former Corporal Clyde-Brough was doing his usual damage . . .
‘Jase,’ Gareth said helplessly.
‘Just piss off, mate, yeah?’ Jason said gently, still not turning around to look his friend in the eye.
And slowly, reluctantly, his heart hammering in his chest and every instinct telling him to stay, Gareth left.
When the door had finally shut behind him, Jason Morley stared at a crack that ran almost the entire length of one wall, and stood for a long time, thinking and drinking beer.
He didn’t know how much time had passed, but he found himself nodding, as if in agreement about some decision that he wasn’t aware had been made.
Eventually he went back to the sofa and slumped into it.
He needed to do some proper thinking.
One thing was clear. Gareth knew. He might not be able to bring himself to say it out loud, but he knew what he, Jason Morley, had done. All those months ago, on that dark, dreary night in Reading.
Gareth, his good old mate Gareth, his comrade-in-arms Gareth, upstanding, law-abiding Gareth Proctor, knew. Good old Gareth, who was now a policeman in all but name, knew that he’d committed murder.
Jason closed his eyes for a moment, and then nodded some more.
Yes. It was finally time to do something about all this. He could put it off no longer. He was getting too tired, and really, what was the point in prolonging things? It had to be sorted out, one way or another.
Once and for all.
CHAPTER FIVE
Six months ago
The killer of Simon Newley sat behind the wheel of their parked car and waited, nervously but patiently, feeling glad that the afternoon light was now fading and that soon it would be dark. Although it had been many hours now since Newley had died, and the killer wanted nothing more than to go home and have a strong, fortifying drink, it simply was not possible.
The horrors of the day were not yet over — and what had to be done now had to be done quickly, before the next victim heard about Newley’s death and was alerted.
The killer patted their most prized gadget, which was now fully recharged and ready again for action. It hadn’t been easy to acquire, of course. But there were always ways and means for someone who was determined — and willing to pay.
Around the unremarkable-looking car, the street lamps started to come on. Since it was autumn, the lights reflected glorious hues of reds, oranges and golds, giving the leafy city side street an almost storybook atmosphere, but the driver barely noticed.
The next victim was due home any time soon, and if he wasn’t on his own . . . well, then, things might not be so easy. The moment would have to be postponed, and who knew, by then, what protection Lionel Kirklees might have put in place? He would certainly make himself a far harder target once he knew the danger he was in, and would be bound to keep bodyguards close.
The uncertainty of not knowing if the moneylender to most of Oxford’s less-than-upstanding citizenry would be vulnerable or not was giving the car’s occupant the heebie-jeebies.
The killer patted the little gizmo again and regarded it anxiously. If Kirklees was alone, then nerves would have to be fortified once more, and a sick stomach firmly ignored. Killing someone seemed easy when you read about it in crime novels, or watched it on the cinema screen. But there was nothing easy about it in real life. It was frightening, dangerous, scary and ugly, and it didn’t feel right, or good, or normal.
But when you had no choice . . .
The killer swallowed hard and hoped their next victim would come soon, and be alone. The waiting was almost too much. Again, the restless and agitated hand reached out and stroked the taser’s small form.
It had better not malfunction. It had already been used once today, and although it was recharged, the killer was no technical expert and supposed that any equipment could fail, at any time, and for any number of reasons. And if it did . . . well, things could go catastrophically wrong.
The figure in the car felt the skin on their body become cold and clammy at the mere thought.
Newley had been an older and overweight man, and even if the taser had failed with him, the so-called antique shop owner could probably still have been dealt with without too much trouble.
But Kirklees was a different matter altogether. Younger, fitter and much, much nastier, Kirklees was in another class of criminal altogether from the pathetic Newley. If, for some reason, he wasn’t sufficiently incapacitated first . . . well, the killer was under no illusions about their chances of winning in a straight physical fight.
Trying to settle already fraught nerves, the occupant of the car recalled all the research they’d done on the handy little gadget waiting so patiently to be used for the second time that day, in an effort to reassure.
Tasers fired two small barbed darts, intended to puncture the skin and remain attached. They should also penetrate clothing up to two inches thick, so really there was nothing to worry about. Was there?
A woman passed by, carrying shopping bags and giving the car, parked in a respectable residential street in leafy north Oxford, not so much as a second glance.
The killer watched her go and then glanced in the rear-view mirror for what felt like the hundredth time. And for the hundredth time, saw no signs of Kirklees’s car. The clock on the dashboard said it was gone six o’clock now though, so the crook’s return home from a hard day of loan-sharking, extortion, and who knew what else, was imminent.
Not for the first time, the killer roundly and silently cursed Newley. If it hadn’t been for him, this nerve-wracking day would never have been necessary.
The watcher in the car settled down to wait for as long as it took, and returned to contemplating the taser. The barbed darts were connected to the unit by thin insulated copper wires, and delivered a modulated electric current designed to disrupt voluntary control of muscles. The resulting neuromuscul
ar incapacitation, according to the literature on the subject, apparently, fooled many witnesses into thinking the victim was unconscious.
Had Newley looked unconscious?
Suddenly, headlights coming up close behind had the occupant of the car instinctively ducking down, and a few moments later, Lionel Kirklees’s sleek slate-grey Jaguar turned into the driveway just in front of the parked car.
Of course, there were all sorts of cars parked in this side street of desirable residences, and the killer felt confident that Kirklees would have had no reason to be interested in one car out of the many.
Knowing they had to move quickly now, the killer of Simon Newley grabbed the taser and the long implement which had been lying between the front and back seats, opened the car door, got out, closed it quietly and sprinted to the entrance of the driveway. There the figure, dressed in dark clothes bought especially for the occasion, knew that they must reach it and slip inside before the automatic gate (which Kirklees had probably opened from his car fob) began to close again.
Therefore the figure in black rested the long implement down just inside the gate, and had only a moment to peer at the car parked in front of the impressive house and make the call. Was Kirklees alone, or would he have a minion with him? Because the vicious crook had a veritable army of young, violent men working for him. Men he used to keep his string of clients motivated to pay back loans at his outrageous lending rates, and deal painfully with anyone foolish enough to object or challenge Kirklees’s methods.
But even as the killer peered through the dark October night into the private, enclosed garden, Lionel himself emerged from behind the wheel, and the automatic light inside the car revealed that he carried no passenger with him.
The killer’s heart leapt in a combination of elation and dread. It was now or never. There would never be a better opportunity to catch Kirklees alone, and in the dark and relatively private surrounds of a garden littered with cover.
The killer felt sick and far less confident than they had earlier that day, at Newley’s tatty shop.
But it had to be done.
The killer was wearing black trainers, and, careful to avoid the gravel on the drive, ran only along the grass lawn bordering the shrubs, moving as fast as possible towards Kirklees, who was now standing in the motion-triggered light that had come on in his porch.
Lionel Kirklees, at thirty-two years of age, was fit and lean, a regular attendee of his local gym. Born in London, he’d come to Oxford because he’d not been able to rise as high as he’d have liked in the capital. But in the years since his arrival in the university city, he was more or less content with his rise up the criminal ladder in a much smaller but still very lucrative pond. Not all his clients were from the lower echelons, desperate to keep the wolf from the door. Oxford was an expensive city, and keeping up appearances was vital to many across the social strata. In fact, his client’s list could, at times, read like a veritable list in ‘Who’s Who’. Bankrupts, living precariously in mansions. Businessmen who needed that extra hundred thousand to make a scoop, just when the banks were being so unreasonably cautious.
Cultivating the custom of such lucrative milch cows hadn’t been easy, and he had, perforce, come to the attention of some rather nasty rivals. But right now, he was confident . . .
A sudden rustling noise had him turning in surprise. Something had disrupted the bushes growing along the drive. But he had no real sense of danger, even then, confidently expecting to see either a neighbourhood cat, or maybe a fox or stray dog slinking along. This was hardly gangland London, after all.
But there was nothing wrong with his reflexes, and the instant he comprehended the figure causing the disruption was human, his right hand was reaching out and behind him for the throwing knife that he kept in his back pocket.
Even so, he was just a little too late to use it.
The taser was discharged and did its work with admirable efficiency. The two barbs hit him square in the chest, and before he could quite establish what was happening, Lionel could feel gravel biting uncomfortably into his face, and he realised he was down on the ground.
And he couldn’t seem to move. Unable to lift his head, he could see only what was at his immediate eye level — which were a pair of black trainers, visible in the light spilling over from the porch, moving away from him towards the gate. Instantly, he felt a sense of relief that whoever it was stupid enough to attack him had thought better of it, or had lost their nerve at the last minute, and was retreating. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on breathing, hoping he’d get control of his limbs back sooner rather than later. He felt horribly exposed and vulnerable in the dark, damp night.
The relief he felt didn’t last long.
The crunching sound of footsteps running across gravel had his eyes snapping open again. He could see only the black trainers, growing almost monstrous in size as they came ever nearer before coming to a stop a few inches from his face.
He tried to speak, but, as Simon Newley would have been able to tell him had he still lived, speech wasn’t possible in the circumstances.
Lionel sensed, rather than saw or felt, something rapidly approaching him, but his wits were too scattered to figure out what that meant for him. So it was that when the unusual-shaped metallic object hit the back of his prone head, he still hadn’t figured out that he was being murdered.
The killer, feeling sick now, and unknowingly sobbing with a mixture of tension, fear and an excess of adrenaline, backed off and glanced wildly around.
The houses on either side, built in more affluent times, seemed reassuringly far away, and each had their own generous garden in between. Nobody had seen or heard anything, it seemed. Certainly no faces appeared at windows, peering out, looking and wondering.
And from the street behind the banks of shrubs, the city traffic swept past uncaring and oblivious.
It was actually over. At last.
With Newley and Kirklees dead, the killer was safe once more.
On knees that felt distinctly rubbery, the figure in black walked to the gate and thrust the murder weapon over the top. Then with shaking hands and weakened limbs, they clambered inelegantly over the gate and almost staggered onto the pavement beyond, bending down to retrieve the object lying on the ground.
Luckily, it was only a few yards to go to the car.
The killer opened the door, slumped behind the wheel, and sat breathing hard.
But not for long — just in case.
With shaking hands, the key turned in the ignition and, with great care, the nondescript car pulled out into the road and drove sedately away.
* * *
When Gareth got back to HQ after his disturbing talk with Jason, Hillary gave him the task of finding out in more detail what had become of Dr Timothy Durning in the last decade. At some point they’d need to interview him, and the more ammunition she had, the better.
Of course, it was possible that Michael Beck’s former lecturer had led a pristine life over the past decade. But she wasn’t holding her breath.
‘It’ll be interesting to see if our Dr Durning has garnered any more complaints from pupils in the intervening years,’ she mused out loud to her team of two.
‘I bet he hasn’t,’ Claire said. ‘The near-miss with our victim will have made him far more careful,’ she added cynically, when Hillary raised a surprised eyebrow at her.
‘Hmmm, possibly,’ Hillary said, but she wasn’t so sure. People with compulsive personalities, she’d found, were the least able to change their habits — even if it were necessary for self-survival. ‘Tomorrow, Gareth, we’ll go and talk to Michael’s best friend and see what he has to say about the murder victim. Especially about how he was behaving and what he thought was going on with him in the last few weeks of his life. While parents might not know everything that goes on in a young adult’s life, it’s far more likely that their best friend will.’
She liked to be fair with the allocation of tasks,
and since Claire had been out in the field today it was Gareth’s turn to escape the office. Besides, he needed more opportunities to learn how the job was done than Claire, who was an old hand at such interviews.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Gareth said, his voice and face both carefully neutral, but both women could tell that he was pleased with the assignment. Paperwork, no matter how vital, always palled after a day or two without a break from it.
And thinking of admin . . . Hillary gave a general mumble of farewell and returned to her own stationery cupboard in order to catch up with her fair share of the boring tasks that never seemed to come to an end.
When she left promptly at five o’clock, she wasn’t surprised to see that Gareth was still at his desk, fully intending to work the extra time that he’d taken off earlier that day.
She was tempted to tell him that he needn’t bother, but knew that the former soldier would feel happier if he was allowed to keep his word, so she simply nodded at him on her way past the open office door.
She climbed up the wide cement stairs, crossed the foyer and emerged out into the chilly car park, walking towards her ancient Volkswagen Golf with a thoughtful frown.
Gareth had looked a little pale when he’d returned to the office.
She slid behind Puff the Tragic Wagon’s steering wheel, telling herself firmly that the private life — and woes — of her co-workers were no longer her concern. That she was no longer an active DI — and if anyone would be needed to sort things out, it should be Superintendent Rollo Sale.
Puff started on the first turn of the key, as if in agreement with her.
But as she drove back the short distance to her narrowboat’s mooring at Thrupp, she couldn’t shake off the feeling that she wasn’t going to be let off so lightly.