A Shot In The Night (John Harper Series Book 2) (22 page)

It
was unusual having to use my command voice twice in one week but it had the
effect of gaining all of their attention, especially since I had ordered the
most dangerous man in the place to do something.  Saul listened to my words and
shouted, “Lower them, I pay you God damn enough, lower your guns!”

The
military training of the professionals kicked in and they lowered their weapons
slowly.  The dealers were more reluctant but they did as their boss told them
as well, “Now gentlemen, can we all please have a little calm,” I said climbing
into the ring so as best to see them all, “Saul, I never said it was one of
your men.  What I wanted to know was who else knew where you lived.”

“And
I told you there was no one else, Harper,” Saul was very close to losing his
temper.

“What
about Max and Tony?”

He
looked up at me and then at the two of them.  The old men had both stood by the
doorway to the small office, no doubt hoping to seek shelter if the gunfire had
started.  They had their arms folded and stared at me as if I had just urinated
on their shoes.  Saul looked at them and just laughed, “Yeah, they knew and
what?”

“Then
maybe we should have a chat with them.”

Spencer
sat in the small interview room and waited as patiently as he could.  The lack
of sleep and amount of caffeine coursing through his system had him on edge,
tapping his foot on the floor to no discernible rhythm.  It wasn’t the first
time in this investigation that he had been to a prison and he hoped it
wouldn’t be the last.  He hoped that he would have the pleasure of seeing the
murdering scumbag inside one of Her Majesty’s high security facilities.

The
man he was meeting, a Ryan Cranston, would be spending the rest of his life
behind bars.  The charges filed against him could fill a phone book twice over
and on the inside he had not been any less violent.  The other member of his
ram raiding squad who had survived long enough to serve at Her Majesty’s
Pleasure, Brian McNeil, had unfortunately been the target of one of the other
Liverpool gangs that had a presence in prison.  He was beaten to death in the
yard which led to Cranston enacting his revenge.  Three inmates shivved with
knife made out of a piece of plastic had led to two more deaths and a man who,
due to his stomach wounds, would need a colostomy bag for the rest of his much
shortened life.

After
the attacks, Cranston apparently suffered a mental breakdown.  His condition
was diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenia, an attempted suicide and then a period
of time in a catatonic state had led to the decision to place him in a secure
mental institution, Ashworth Hospital.  It was a much easier and safer
lifestyle for Cranston than being placed back in prison but he was still
surrounded by some of the most dangerous and violent people requiring
psychiatric help in the country.

Spencer
didn’t expect the man to give him much in the way of information; the gang way
of life encouraged silence, but it was a lead and in this particular
investigation that was the most important thing.  Anything that could help him
make an arrest and end the carnage that had befallen his city.  He knew that
making Cranston talk would require some quick thinking but the wait and the
drive over plus a phone conversation to the officer who had arrested him gave
Spencer an idea as how to approach the former armed robber.

The
door was opened and in walked a muscular man in his forties wearing an orange
t-shirt, jeans and grey deck shoes; one of the perks of being in a mental
institution.  He was escorted to a chair in front of the detective and sat
staring vacantly around the room. The prison guard cum nurse shut the door
behind him, leaving the two men together.  Spencer stared at the man for a
moment assessing him as best as he could.  Cranston’s face was hidden by his
beard and long hair and he twitched ever so slightly. There were bags under his
blue eyes but they seemed oddly alert.

“Good
morning Mister Cranston, I’m Detective Inspector Spencer and I’d like to ask
you some questions if that is ok with you?”

Cranston
looked back at him and fixed him with a stare that was completely lucid, “Ask
away, detective.”

“Ok
Ryan, is it ok if I call you Ryan?” the man nodded so Spencer continued, “Good,
well Ryan, I want to discuss with you a gun that was in your possession.  I
have a picture of it, a Webley and Smith Mark IV, do you remember it at all?”

Cranston
didn’t even bother looking down at the photographs that Spencer had placed on
the table in front of him, “I don’t remember anything from my time before the
voices.  It’s all just bits and pieces, I don’t know what is real or what I’ve
made up.”

Spencer
smiled briefly at the man and carried on in a softly spoken voice that was more
used to speaking to children than adults, mimicking the way Cranston had
answered him but without the singsong lilt to it, “I understand it must be very
difficult for you, Ryan, how are the voices?  I mean you’ve been living with
them for a few years now, are things getting any better?”

Cranston’s
eyes narrowed briefly and then he looked away and offered another twitch, “They
come and go, they’re much better than before.”

“Well
that’s good to hear.  I mean, I spoke to a Detective Dillon, do you remember
him, Ryan? He was the man who investigated your robberies. Well, he thinks that
those voices in your head don’t even exist.  He wasn’t worried about you at
all, he said that he thought you were one of the cleverest men he had ever met
and if anyone could pull the wool over the police and mental services
collective eyes then it was you,” Spencer picked up one of the photos and held
it before Cranston, “Ryan, are you sure you haven’t seen this gun before?”

“I
can’t help you sir.  The voices,
they
just won’t let me,” the last
statement was said with an edge that had Spencer balling his fingers beneath
the table.

“I
see, well if they are that bad then maybe they need to up your medication.  All
these years in here and you are still hearing them, maybe you need to go
off…let me see,” Spencer looked at a file he had next to the photos, “Yes, go
off Olanzapine and put you on, say, Clozapine. I hear it is a lot more
controlled and can help stop those voices that you are struggling with.”

Cranston’s
eyes widened briefly and then he twitched again a little more forcefully, “No,
my medication is working.  It just takes time, that’s what the doctors all
say.”

“That’s
right, I know a fair few doctors, I even know Doctor Cross. I’d be more than
happy to get in touch with him to arrange for a course of Clozapine at your
next treatment review; if there are any adverse side effects, you know, like if
you get angry again, then there are always some sedatives like Clonazepam.  Who
knows, by the time of your next full evaluation they might clear you sane
enough to go back to a real prison.  There’s a good lawyer, a Mister Edwards,
and we go way back so I am sure that he would be more than willing to try and
fight for your human rights by getting you out of here.  I mean, that might be
the only way you can remember anything about this gun, to increase your
medication,” Spencer said shrugging and leaning back in his chair.

Cranston
fixed him with look, turned ever so slightly so he was facing Spencer squarely
and laid his hands on the table, “What do you want to know?”

Spencer
smiled, pleased that Dillon’s estimation of the man was accurate and that the
veiled threats had hit home.  Cranston was a clever man and, knowing that he
was going to face a life inside, had chosen the easy option of feigning
insanity.  Spencer knew that it must have been hard work for the man to
maintain it and avoid taking the medication they prescribed but it was safer
than going back to a real prison where he would have to look over his shoulder
for the rest of his life.

He
could have been telling the truth about a psychological breakdown but the way
he reacted to Spencer’s suggestions and the fact that his lawyer had a
reputation for coaching his clients for insanity claims had confirmed any
suspicions the detective had about the man.  The drugs he had mentioned that
Cranston could be placed on were heavy duty; the sedative would completely
immobilise him.  Clozapine is one of the last resorts when it comes to
anti-psychotic drugs, due to the cost and the danger.  One of the more serious
of main side effects was the effect it had on white cells in the blood, which
meant that regular blood tests were needed for the patients’ safety, which also
ensured that the drug was being taken.  Cranston would have no choice but to
take it and the other side effects coupled with not actually hearing voices
would wreck havoc on his body.  He would no doubt have seen patients on it and
be scared senseless at the thought of being placed on such a drug.  He could
have called Spencer’s bluff but what was the sense in risking his quiet life on
the chance that the policeman was lying?

“Ryan,
I just want to know who you sold this weapon to.  If you can give me any more
information on the weapon, all the better.  I mean, anything you say has to be
taken with a pinch of salt anyway considering your situation, doesn’t it?”
Spencer hoped that Cranston understood that he was giving him an excuse to tell
the truth and hopefully, if it did get out, there would be no retribution
coming his way.

“I
saw a lot of guns in my day, copper, ranging from AKs to rocket launchers.  You
show me a picture of one old revolver, I ain’t gonna remember anything about
it,” Cranston said, his voice harsher, more guttural than the gentle way he had
spoken earlier, as if Spencer was finally hearing and seeing the real man for
the first time.

Spencer
nodded and pointed at the picture, “It was used by one of your gang in a post
office raid.  One of the tellers got shot back at the start of the millennium.”

“See
that barely narrows it down, we did a lot of jobs and some people got in the
way.”

“Are
you sure about that?  It was out of the city, down south.  What gets me is that
there are still serial numbers on it, maybe that helps you.”

“Oh
that does help.  That gun was an old war piece, always just a something that
should be used and then thrown away, except Dougie, he loved that thing. 
Cleaning it and keeping it pristine, said he stole it off some old man when he
was a kid.  When he popped I didn’t see the point in keeping it around so I
sold it.  Those numbers don’t mean anything to me, I never used the thing and
what you gonna do, find out it was an Army weapon?  Sometimes you busies say
the stupidest things,” Cranston laughed leaning back in his chair hands running
through his long hair to rest interlaced behind his head.

Spencer
nodded, remembering that Douglas Makin had been one of the crew Cranston had
worked with and the first of two to die in the bitter gang wars, “So who did
you sell the gun to?”

“Some
kid.  He came round and was new to the gang so I sold him it for some
ridiculous price.  I mean just because someone sent him around to get a piece
doesn’t mean I didn’t have to make a profit.”

Spencer
nodded glumly thinking that selling the weapon for anything was a profit,
something that had done neither Cranston nor the people now on morgue slabs any
good, “Do you remember the lad’s name?  Or if not what he looked like?”

“Yeah
I remember his name.  The kid was called Boulton, you know, like the crappy
football team.”

That
joke, albeit not the greatest in the world, made Spencer laugh, a grim chuckle
that drew a weird look from Cranston.  The detective was back at square one and
there was nothing he could think of to help get him moving forward again other
than to ask Harper for help and he was loath to do so.

Camille
Jarvis sat at her desk and sipped coffee from her oversized mug.  She was
staring at her laptop screen and silently praying that the words she needed
would suddenly appear on the screen.  After her little stint on television,
getting back to actually writing for her website and the newspaper had been
difficult.  She’d been told that doing a video log and putting that online
would be easier and, considering her looks, it might increase foot traffic on
the site.  Camille however was old school, preferring to write her copy down
instead of delivering it to a camera.  Not that she as adverse to that medium,
she hoped that she could get a job on the news as a reporter in the near
future, but she had always loved writing no matter what else she was doing.

Today
however, it was difficult, a real struggle for her to focus considering she had
the threat of Big Saul hanging over her.  Harper had done his best to ease that
worry but she couldn’t trust the former policeman.  Normally she could get any
man to do what she wanted, she was very good at using her assets to wrap men
around her finger but Harper was different.  Maybe it was his age and there was
obviously the issue over the Hollingswood case but he seemed to be immune, or
at least resistant, to her charms.  That made him all the more interesting and,
added to the fact that he seemed keen to use her for help regarding the
shootings, made him her favourite person of the moment.  Still she rarely
trusted anyone, that came as part of the job, and putting her trust in a man
who had threatened to destroy her in the past did not come easy, especially
when it was in the form of putting a leash on one of the most dangerous drug
dealers in the country.

Luckily
she was exempt from doing her usual reporting job of following around soap
stars.  She was resented by some of the staff for having what was a very
enjoyable job, but Camille hated the vapid lifestyle of the non-celebrities and
had long ago decided that all that was needed for that section of the paper was
a series of photos from freelance photographers whilst she wrote up where
people had been from Twitter announcements.  It would require less effort on
her behalf, however the editor had deemed that someone actually needed to go to
those parties and clubs for the inside gossip.  The problem that presented was
simple; once she was in she couldn’t reveal any of the true gossip because she
wouldn’t get invited back.  That’s why those pieces were usually short and
promoting a new show or product for the celebrity.  Camille wasn’t surprised
other papers had got rid of staff members who also did her job, what was
surprising was that some people had managed to cling to a living following
people to parties.  What that said about those individuals was probably left to
a team of psychiatrists to analyse.

Camille’s
fingers hovered over the keyboard when her e-mail chimed, a welcome
distraction, she opened the folder and stared at the sender, a Paul Avery.  She
recognised the name but couldn’t place it. It had a large attachment but the
anti-virus software deemed it safe to open.  Camille sat back and clicked on
it, happy she had something to procrastinate over.  The video player sprang to
life but there was no picture, only audio.  A distorted voice spoke out from
her speakers.

“Hello
Miss Jarvis, I thought since you seem to be the expert on my case, you would be
the best person to contact.  However there will be other copies of my message
being sent out if you decide not to heed my warning.  I am the person you are
searching for.  The
Seasonal Sniper
as you have dubbed
me.  It was never my intention to speak to the press but things have escalated
to the point where my point of view must be heard.  If you doubt that this is
word of the man who has terrorised those involved in the drug distribution in
Liverpool then I offer you the information that I delivered the Webley revolver
to the Elsworth community centre.  Since there has been no press release as to
the nature of the weapon or the location of where the police received it I
believe that should be good enough for you to verify my claim.”

“For
years I have seen the scum of drug dealers destroy the lives of people of this
city.  I could never understand why it was so difficult for the police to
arrest these known criminals, but it has recently come to my attention that
there is collusion between the service that is supposed to protect the innocent
and these evil people who profit from selling narcotics.  It was something I
have always suspected but I have now seen it with my own eyes in unerring
detail.”

“I
have been punishing those people who peddle drugs but now I will turn my
attention to those who have protected them.  This is the only warning they will
get.  My aim is for the people to see that there is corruption throughout the
system and that the only way to excise this cancer is by removing it with
surgical precision.”

“I
will punish indiscriminately and will continue to do so till the police see the
error of their ways and stop these men who destroy lives with no remorse.  Only
then will I leave this city to heal.”

The
message stopped and Camille let out a ragged breath, suddenly realising she had
been holding it for the duration of the recording.  She made the connection as
to who Paul Avery was, the journalist the Zodiac Killer had approached. 
Whoever this person was, they were clever and had a twisted way of getting her
attention.  Camille tried not to think about the threats that Avery had
received from that famous murderer and instead her mind raced as to what would
be the best way to break this story.  This would be a defining moment for her
career, much more than being on television or her other reports.  The website
would be the best as a personal outlet, the national news channels for
promoting herself on a broader market.  Her paper would essentially be useless
in this modern era and of course she could always use social media.  However
she knew that she had to protect people as well if this shooter was going to
start targeting the police and there was one person she knew who would need
that information before anyone else.