by Dan Laughey
‘Recognise her?’
He dangled the image a few inches from her nose. By now it was difficult to see anything, even close up, though she didn’t need to look to know who it would be. She tried shaking her head, but the searing pain in her neck rendered her paralysed from the shoulders up.
‘No need to answer, Sheila. We’re not stupid. Give up pretending and tell us where she is.’
They hadn’t found her. At least that was something to cling on to. Something precious. And for a blissful moment spent basking in a silence that lingered like the last gasp of oxygen in the tank, she felt a delightful concoction of relief and hope.
Hope for Chloe; not for herself.
Baseball Cap began circling her, hands in trouser pockets. He had a funny way of walking that took some of the gloss off his air of supremacy. She thought of Monty Python and the Ministry of Silly Walks, and that made her giggle. A stifled giggle, that became a distinct snort. She could scarcely believe her own nervous system.
‘I won’t ask you what you find so funny about being tied to a chair and beaten senseless. Perhaps you like it that way. Many women do.’
He stopped in mid-walk directly behind her so that she was unable to see what he held in his hand. Then he whispered his toxic breath in her ear.
‘You like agony, Sheila, don’t you? You fantasise about violence. These things stimulate your dull senses. Each time someone hits you or chokes you or stamps on you, the next time you want it a bit more. And harder. Much harder. Well, Sheila, whatever your needs, I’m happy to oblige.’
He adjusted the Taser to its highest ‘fired’ setting before thrusting the stun gun into her right armpit and letting fifty thousand volts go to work. She began to quiver violently and would have ripped her own arms and legs off had they not been fixed down to the heavy chair. Ten seconds later he released the charge. She coughed up bile and began breathing again.
By now Baseball Cap was sat in his favourite chair, waving the Taser around like a remote control, she the device at his mercy.
‘How did that feel?’ She didn’t speak, she couldn’t speak. ‘You don’t need to express gratitude to me; I understand perfectly what a thrill it gave you. Look again at the girl in the photograph. Where is she? Tell me immediately or I will electrocute you again.’
He patted the Taser, his pet attack dog.
She was still coming up for breath, her head throbbing like no headache she’d suffered before. Her whole body was burning yet felt as rigid as a block of ice. Her tortured spasms gradually softened to something like contractions.
Baseball Cap decided to play for time a little longer.
‘Since you’re not cooperating, Sheila, let me refresh your memory. The girl in the photo is Chloe Lee. She’s a close friend of yours. You used to live next to her.’
In any normal state she’d have found it impossible to conceal surprise at the man’s intimate knowledge of her past – a past spent hiding from the likes of him and his loathsome companion. But so battered and drained was she that nothing could betray her inner emotions any longer.
‘You were her guardian for much of her childhood. You grew to like her, to love her. Having no children of your own it was only natural to seek out a surrogate. Besides, her parents were woeful role models. If it wasn’t for your caring outlook, Sheila, a girl of Chloe’s maladjusted upbringing would have never considered a university education, let alone achieved the necessary academic credentials to attain it.’ He stabbed a finger at the photograph on the coffee table. ‘We are lucky people, are we not, to have encountered such a clever girl? And who was the source of her cleverness? The answer, without doubt, is you.’
Keeping one eye on the scene before him and the other on his Seiko watch, Ray-Bans shuffled uncomfortably in his lean-to throne. He didn’t want to lower the pathos, but if this woman wasn’t for turning, then flogging a dead horse meant valuable time going to waste. Besides, he wasn’t young any more and needed his forty winks, the entertainment before him proving a maddening distraction.
‘You taught her a great deal,’ Baseball Cap continued, ‘much of it useful, for sure, but some of your teachings were less advisable. You told her about your old journalist friend. You recommended him to her, or maybe her to him.’ Then he pointed to Ray-Bans. ‘And you told her how once upon a time you witnessed something terrible which, you said, involved my good friend here.’ Ray-Bans shuffled some more. ‘Something to do with the kind of people my good friend mixed with; heroic people that your lot liked to harass and victimise. This so-called terrible act you witnessed – and filmed for posterity! – was so disturbing to your flawed vision of a multicultural society that you couldn’t tell anyone else about it without jeopardising your very existence…’
He pushed in close to her, then screamed: ‘Is that not so?’
She stared blankly at Chloe’s picture, unable to quell the inner liquid glazing her bloodshot eyes.
‘You told no-one about this shocking experience except, many years later, the girl in the photo; the girl who lived on your street. And that was your great mistake, Sheila. Maybe Chloe asked too many questions; maybe she was a little too curious, like Alice in Wonderland; or maybe you let your secret slip out one night, after too many glasses of wine, and from there it was a down-hill journey to where you are now, desperately trying to put the brakes on an unstoppable train.’
Baseball Cap’s speech was as carefully rehearsed as a West End play. He knew everything. And what he didn’t he’d probably guess right.
‘You’re the cause of your own downfall. You could have carried on living in peace, but now you’ve spoilt it all, or more to the point, darling Chloe has spoilt it for you. She told us everything. We’ve been hunting for you. And now we’ve found you, we will find her. So you see, there’s really no escape.’ He paused. ‘My partner and I are prepared to come to an agreement. You’ll agree. Or you will die a very painful death.’
He lifted his cap and placed his face as close to hers as possible without touching skin.
‘Chloe’s loose tongue has landed you in the mess you’re in. You can save your life by answering one very simple question. Where is Chloe, Sheila?’
She threw another blank stare.
‘We won’t harm her. We only want back what rightly belongs to us. We know you’ve shown her the video, and whether she has it or not, we must find her and – how shall I put it – correct her interpretation of past events. A corrupt seed that you planted in her brain.’
Baseball Cap tapped his fingers lightly on the photograph in front of him, as if by doing so he might conjure up the girl’s location, but no voodoo inspiration came his way.
‘Are you ready to speak?’
He eyeballed the woman in front of him, Taser clenched in his grip.
All she gave back was silence.
Sant woke up with a sore head. The curry had been great but he’d washed it down with one too many bottles of lager. Mia had disliked the beer and reverted to water with her chicken bhuna. Good for her, he reflected. As well as talking about the Gray news reports, they’d shared their favourite music and movies, and then shared a taxi back, Mia getting out first at her student flat. They were fast becoming good friends and Sant blessed his luck at having found someone with whom he could enjoy the time of day – or night.
He rushed out of his city-centre apartment – how he needed a big breakfast to replace vitamin loss – and headed straight to HQ and Capstick. He also needed to touch base with Hardaker on the bus murders and explain how Dryden’s numbers appeared to be shorthand for a date. Halloween 1984. The day another Leeds policeman had been shot down.
Capstick wasn’t there when he arrived at the office, but Holdsworth was.
‘He’s down in the basement,’ she said. ‘You’ve got him hooked on dusty files and broken tapes.’
‘Great,’ said Sant. ‘How are you and Capstick getting on?’
Holdsworth looked up from her paperwork. ‘Very well, thanks for a
sking. We’re having loads of… fun.’
‘And don’t let me stop you.’
‘Don’t worry. We won’t. And by the way, I’ve had no luck yet searching for an ex-PC called Frank Tanner, but I’ve got a new lead on Dryden – though I’m still chasing the details so don’t hold your breath. And as for the Chloe Lee case, Jake Downing is returning from London later today, so I’ll hook up with Brad and draft up more awkward questions for the cocky lad.’
‘Good work, Holdsworth. I’ll be back once I’ve finished with your boyfriend.’
He winked and left hastily.
His partner was less dust-ridden than before, the white covering on his NHS specs resembling fine snow rather than a blizzard.
‘I’ve got something for you to chase up, Capstick.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Sant showed him the Yorkshire Post report Mia had copied. ‘Dated the 3rd of November 1984, referring to an incident on the evening of the 2nd, two days after Gray’s murder. Firearms officers surrounded a block of semi-detached council houses converted into flats on Stanks Lane South and arrested a man at gunpoint in connection with an armed raid at a nearby property.’
‘Where’s the connection with Gray?’
Sant pointed to the report. ‘It’s not clear there is one – a senior West Yorkshire police source is quoted as saying: “There are no early indications that these are the men involved in Sergeant Gray’s murder, but we’re keeping our options open”.’
‘Seems like a connection was trying to be made.’
‘Hoping to be made, Capstick, in which case there should be something in the files about the incident.’
‘There’s nothing, sir.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Certain.’
Sant looked bemused. ‘Do the honours again, Capstick, just in case you’ve missed a trick in that dust storm.’
Capstick nodded reluctantly and ventured back into the ether of the archive room.
Sant sat on the ancient desk and read the news report carefully. Stanks Lane South cut through Swarcliffe and Seacroft, not far from Chloe’s mother’s home as well as the former home of her elusive neighbour. A local resident had told the Yorkshire Post: “Six police cars sped into the road. Two police cars blocked the road near my house and another two were pulled across the lane further up. Four policemen then crouched behind one car, their rifles and pistols trained on the flats.”
Another witness, an elderly resident, had said: “The police with guns seemed to be everywhere. I was terrified. They said they were looking for stolen property. I could see across to the next flat and I saw they were searching the loft.”
The report continued: “Police confirmed that a man had been taken away from the flat. Officers were searching the grounds by torchlight and were later seen removing items from the flat in black plastic bags.”
So officers had been searching for stolen property after an armed burglary. It seemed like the man arrested had been grassed on by a snitch, probably in return for kinder treatment at the hands of a seething police force. These were desperate times for police and criminals alike. The underworld would be under scrutiny for many months to come. Known troublemakers would be put under surveillance, any excuse for an arrest granted.
Perhaps all this pressure brought to bear on the lawless fraternity had cast doubts over who to trust, and forced a few confessions in return for lighter sentences. But all these leads and tip-offs had proven false, meaningless, insufficient in the hunt for a police killer.
Midway through Sant’s meditations a dust-coated Capstick entered his consciousness and broke its peace.
‘Definitely no record of the Stanks Lane South raid, sir.’
‘Certain?’
Capstick frowned. ‘You’re not going to suggest I triple check – ’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, Capstick. And besides,’ he grinned, ‘I suspect you’re right. Chase up the finer facts with your good friend Holdsworth, and don’t let go too easily. I think we’re onto something.’
But Sant didn’t think it at all; he knew it.
The jerky hands on the dial of his imitation Rolex told him it was half past ten; time to call on Mrs Andrews and her husband. He drove the short distance from HQ to their Gipton address, calling Holdsworth on the way to explain why her new lead on Dryden would have to be put on hold.
Much like its neighbour Seacroft, the garden-city council estate of Gipton had sprung up mid century to accommodate the hordes of working-class folk – Irish Catholics in particular – forced to relocate from inner-city slums. A few die-hard residents held firm and refused to leave until the bulldozers roared their disapproval. But even they had to admit that their new homes, with their accompanying greenery and newly-tarmacked roads, looked a damn sight better than the squalor to which they were accustomed.
Sant had grown up on a street like the Andrews’s. Much of this north-east segment of the city was a product of the once-held, flawed ambition to make Leeds Britain’s first ‘Motorway City’, the inner-ring road its pulsing heart. The magnates of Leeds fixated on the language of transportation and technology as they tried to right the wrongs of their forefathers, most of whom let the city go to waste and did nothing to alleviate poverty – in stark contrast to the philanthropic industrialists of nearby Bradford and Halifax. Sadly, the honourable objectives behind a ‘New Leeds’, a ‘Motorway-City Leeds’, had proven unworkable – and the envisaged garden suburbs of Gipton and Seacroft were no less riddled with problems than the Victorian slums they’d replaced.
He parked his car outside a boarded-up newsagent’s, sidestepped a sea of broken glass littering the road, and took a deep breath before approaching the front door of the Coldcotes Walk house.
To his surprise, the door started to open before he’d even knocked. But it took some time to fully open because it needed lifting as well as pulling, its hinges jolted by some kind of violent attack from the outside. An unwelcome visitor, Sant suspected.
At last, the head of Mrs Andrews appeared around the door frame. She hesitated a moment, as if weighing up the intentions of her caller, before releasing the safety chain and allowing him in.
He was shown into a small lounge with mock ceiling beams before being motioned towards a sofa which he literally sank into, its springs shot to pieces through years of wear and tear.
‘I’m sorry to bother you again,’ he began.
‘It’s no bother at all,’ she replied, perching on a buffet.
‘Is your husband at home?’
Mrs Andrews fidgeted with her wedding ring and spoke softly, as if afraid of being overhead. ‘No – I mean yes – I mean, he’s here but not in the house.’ She hesitated before pointing: ‘The garden.’
‘I see.’
‘Pruning the creepers. I’ll call him – ’
‘Not just yet.’ Sant gestured for her to stay seated. She nodded a reluctant consent. ‘Your daughter Kate knew Chloe Lee, didn’t she?’ She nodded again. ‘Tell me about their friendship.’
Mrs Andrews blew into a hankie, drying her teary eyes at the same time. ‘I can tell you what I know,’ she snivelled, ‘but do I have to go through it again?’
‘Again?’
‘Yes. Don’t you policemen talk to each other?’
Resisting the urge to bite on a fresh toothpick, he kept calm and sidestepped the awkward cross-questioning. ‘Which colleague of mine spoke to you, Mrs Andrews?’
She looked up at the ceiling. ‘Oh, let me think… my memory’s terrible.’ She shook her head before a flicker of recollection crossed her tired face. ‘An Irish name.’
‘Gilligan?’
‘Yes, that’s him.’
Sant fixed his eyes on a school portrait of Kate hanging on the wall. She was staring unsmilingly at him, a picture of sincerity lost to the world, her right to justice under threat from paranoid policemen panicking about what to do next. He joined up the dots in his head as he gazed at the girl: so it seemed Hardaker had rea
d the same signals in that first interview with Mrs Andrews and relayed his suspicions to Old Man Gilligan, who for some reason had chosen to visit Mrs Andrews rather than let Hardaker take over the reins. Talk about unorthodox.
‘I’m afraid I’ve not had chance to liaise with Assistant Chief Constable Gilligan,’ he lied.
Mrs Andrews looked unconvinced, but answered the inferred request anyway. ‘They weren’t close friends. They’d only known each other for a year or so. I think they first met in some bar or club.’
‘Did Kate and Chloe go out in town often?’
She blew into the hankie again.
‘Once a fortnight – and always clubbing. I mean, they dressed in the same outfits; got on like a house on fire. Until the fall out.’
‘Fall out?’
‘Well, what do girls fall out over?’
‘Boys?’
Mrs Andrews nodded. And then Sant tried his luck again.
‘Callum Willis?’
‘What it was, Kate and Callum had been going steady for years – they first became close in the second year of high school.’
Sant made a rough calculation in his head. ‘Six years ago.’
‘They were a rare breed these days; first loves still in love. Not many people know this – my husband included – but they got engaged a few weeks back. A quiet celebration is what they called it. I was so happy for them.’ She paused to look at the portrait of her daughter. ‘Such a terrible waste.’
‘Your husband didn’t approve of their relationship?’
Mrs Andrews squinted nervously towards the rear of the house. ‘Don’t tell him I said this, Inspector, but he hated Callum; looked down on him. It was as if Callum was not worthy of being Kate’s boyfriend. The arguments we’ve had… well, I won’t bore you with them. Having said that, if my husband knew what I know, he’d murder the poor lad.’
She stopped short, realising the futility of her remarks, and bit into the hankie she was gripping.
‘I take it Chloe enters the picture somewhere?’
Mrs Andrews nodded. ‘At first Kate wouldn’t talk about it – she was so upset I couldn’t get a word in edgeways. Basically, Callum had a fling with Chloe. Kate locked herself in her bedroom for ages, crying her eyes out and refusing to speak to Callum, but at last they made up.’