Blood On the Wall (6 page)

I
t was lucky it was summertime, thought Georgiou,
otherwise
we’d need the big lights at this time of the morning, and that would be a big part of our annual budget gone. But here in mid-June in north Cumbria, a quarter to five in the morning was broad daylight. He parked his car by the other police cars and headed for the walls surrounding the old Roman fort of Birdoswald.

A uniformed officer hurried towards him. Georgiou recognized him as Sergeant Filby. He’d worked briefly with him in the past, but not enough to say he knew him well.

The body was still in place, hanging upside-down from a wooden beam set in a stone archway. Georgiou was glad to see the area around the body had been taped off by SOCO, keeping casual visitors at bay. From this distance Georgiou could see that the body was fully clothed, this time in jacket and trousers.

‘Same MO as the others, sir,’ said Filby. ‘The head’s missing. The wrists and ankles have been tied with electrical wire.’

‘Do we know who it is?’

‘Not yet. It’s a man, but I didn’t want to start rummaging around in his clothes looking for identification until you got here.’

‘Good thinking,’ said Georgiou approvingly. ‘Are the scientific team here?’

‘On their way,’ said Filby. ‘I contacted them the same time as I got in touch with you. I’ve also had the area roped off where there are tyre tracks, just in case it’s our man.’

‘Good,’ said Georgiou again.

This was the way he liked it. Keep a crime scene intact until every inch had been explored, every fibre picked up, every piece of evidence extracted.

‘Who discovered the body?’

‘A man out walking his dog.’

Another early-morning dog walker, thought Georgiou. He was surprised by the fact that the victim was a man this time. Why had the killer changed his or her pattern? The theory that the killer hated women had just gone out of the window.

‘Guv!’

He turned and saw Mac Tennyson heading towards him. Behind Tennyson the scientific team had just arrived and were unloading their equipment from their vehicles. Things were happening.

Tennyson looked rough, like he’d just been dragged out of bed. Which, indeed, he had.

‘I would have been here earlier but the traffic lights on Wigton Road had got stuck on red. Traffic chaos.’

‘Chaos?’ queried Georgiou.

‘Well, three cars backed up waiting for them to change. In
the end I just went through them. Thought I’d let you know in case you get a complaint.’

Tennyson gestured towards the taped-off scene..

‘What’s the score?’ Tennyson asked.

‘Exactly the same as the others, except this one’s male,’ said Georgiou.

‘Oh?’ Tennyson frowned. ‘Why?’

‘Exactly my question,’ said Georgiou. ‘We’ll let the science team do their bit, then we’ll go and see what we can work out.’

Tennyson looked around the area surrounding the remains of the Roman fort, at the open landscape, the nearby road.

‘Out in the open,’ he commented. ‘First in Stanwix, now here. He’s taking a chance, isn’t he?’

‘I think it’s a way of boasting on his part,’ said Georgiou. ‘A challenge. Each time he’s pushing the boundary further. I wonder what next?’

‘A body hanging up in the middle of Hardwicke Circus?’ suggested Tennyson.

At the mention of Carlisle’s most notorious traffic bottleneck, the huge roundabout that fed the traffic between England and Scotland, Georgiou shuddered.

‘Don’t even joke about it,’ he said. ‘Anyway, while the science guys are still busy, let’s get on the phone and tell the rest of the team, and tell them we want them in for a briefing on the latest killing.’

‘OK, guv,’ said Tennyson, pulling out his mobile. ‘What time do you want them in?’

Georgiou looked at his watch and made a quick
calculation. Say another hour for the science teams, then an hour for himself and Tennyson to go over the spot and give orders to uniformed.

‘Tell them eight o’clock,’ he said. ‘And tell them they’re lucky to be having a lie-in, unlike us.’

E
ight o’clock, and the team were assembled in the briefing room: Mac Tennyson, Debby Seward, Kirsty Taggart, Iain Conway. Only Richard Little was missing. Conway had phoned his home and Little’s wife had said she’d pass on the message, but so far there was nothing from him. Georgiou couldn’t wait for him; Little would get the
information
later.

‘As you all know, there’s been another killing,’ he told them. ‘The body was found at the old Roman fort at Birdoswald. Same MO as the other two. Body strung up. Head cut off and removed. This time the victim was a man. From identification on the body, he appears to be a Chinese takeaway owner from Carlisle called Han Sun, so I think we can forget the Border Reivers link … unless there was a Chinese branch of the Reivers that we don’t know about.’

A new section of evidence boards had been set up, these devoted to information on the latest killing. So far all that had been put up were photographs of the scene of the crime. The rest were blanks to be filled in.

‘We need answers: What was Mr Han Sun doing at
Birdoswald? Did our killer meet him there, or take him there? Conway, pick up Richard and then I want the pair of you to go and see the victim’s family and his workmates. Everyone who knew him. Let’s try and piece together the last time anyone saw him.’

‘Right, boss,’ said Conway.

‘Seward and Taggart, I think it’s time you had a word with this Drake character.’

‘Right,’ said Seward.

‘Uniform are still going over the site at Birdoswald, so we’ll let them get on with that. Mac and I will stay here and co-ordinate things, pick up any information we can. Keep your mobiles switched on so we can get hold of you if anything turns up.’

The address they’d been given for Eric Drake was a house in Denton Holme. It was one of the larger houses, and had all the hallmarks of student occupation: the curtains at some of the windows were closed, others had been replaced with a sheet hanging down, partly shielding the occupants of the room from prying eyes. They were responsible, though: in the small area at the front of the house one wheelie bin had a homemade label stuck on it which said ‘Can recyling’. Taggart lifted the lid and revealed a bin filled to the top with empty beer cans.

‘Any bets they’re all male students?’ she said as she shut the lid.

‘You think women students don’t drink beer?’ asked Seward.

‘Not this much,’ said Taggart.

She rang the bell, and after a moment the door was opened by a bleary-eyed young man of about twenty in jeans, T-short, bare feet, and a woolly hat.

‘Yeah?’ he asked.

Taggart and Seward showed him their police ID.

‘Police,’ said Seward. ‘Is Eric Drake in?’

The young man seemed to be struggling with this sudden appearance of the police on his doorstep, and whatever was going on in the house.

‘What time is it?’ he asked.

‘Our question was first,’ said Taggart. ‘May we come in?’

‘Er …’ began the youth.

‘Thank you,’ said Taggart, and she and Seward stepped inside. There was the definite smell of cannabis clinging to the inside of the house.

The youth looked at them, unhappy.

‘Shouldn’t you have a warrant?’ he demanded.

‘That depends if you’ve got anything to hide,’ said Taggart. ‘Have you?’

‘No,’ said the youth defensively.

‘Fine,’ said Taggart. ‘So, where can we find Eric Drake?’

‘He’s … he’s still in bed.’

‘Then I’m sure he won’t mind us calling on him,’ said Taggart. ‘Where’s his room?’

The youth hesitated.

‘Of course, we could always go knocking on all the doors and look for him,’ said Taggart. ‘Who knows what we might find?’

The thought of the two policewomen searching through the different rooms in the house made his mind up for him.

‘Top of the stairs. Second door on the right. It’s got an Iron Maiden poster on it.’

It would have, thought Seward. Heavy metal, another of her pet dislikes. What with that and a would-be career as a pretentious film director, she was beginning to dislike this Drake character more and more before she’d even met him.

The door to Drake’s room was easily found. It wasn’t just the Iron Maiden poster pinned to it, it was also the gothic graffiti that adorned the rest of the door.

Seward knocked. There was the sound of a grunting from inside.

‘That sounded to me like “Come in”,’ commented Taggart.

‘That’s what I heard as well,’ agreed Seward.

The door was unlocked, and as they pushed it open the rank smells of sweaty, unwashed clothes and stale tobacco came out and hit them. The room was in darkness, the thick curtains pulled shut. Taggart switched on the light, although a shawl had been thrown over the shade of the central light, so that even with the light on, the room still seemed to be dark.

The mess in the room was a sight to behold. Leftovers of meals on dirty plates on the floor. Beer cans. Ashtrays overflowing. Clothes crumpled and just discarded, hiding most of the floor and what furniture there was in the room.

There came more grunting from the bed at one side of the room, and then a tousled head poked itself out from under the covers, like a tortoise coming out of hibernation.

Eric Drake squinted at the two women.

‘What the f—’ he began. ‘Who are you?’

‘Police,’ said Taggart, and once again she and Seward
held out their police IDs. ‘Are you Eric Drake?’

‘No,’ said the young man.

Seward and Taggart exchanged looks.

‘In that case, would you get dressed? We’ll need to talk to you down at the station.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Because you’re in Eric Drake’s room and we wish to find out where he is.’

There was a pause, then the young man in the bed asked, ‘Why?’

Taggart and Seward had adjusted their vision to the gloom and saw now that the man in the bed was in his late twenties, with long, greasy hair and the beginnings of a beard. Or perhaps he just hadn’t shaved for a few days.

Seward sighed. ‘Look, can we cut all this,’ she said. ‘All we want to do is ask you some questions about a film you’re making. Then we can get out of here.’

At the mention of his film, Drake sat up in the bed.

‘What about my film?’ he demanded.

‘First, what did Tamara Armstrong have to do with it?’

Drake looked puzzled.

‘Tamara?’ he asked. ‘You mean the girl who was killed?’

‘That’s exactly who we mean,’ said Seward. ‘We understand she was in your film.’

‘No way!’ said Drake vehemently. ‘I use proper actors.’

‘So what was her part?’ asked Seward. ‘Crew? Background artiste?’

‘Yeah.’ Drake nodded. ‘Background artiste. An extra.’ Looking from Seward to Taggart and back again, he appealed: ‘Look, can we do this downstairs so I can get a
coffee? I’ve only just woken up.’

‘Here is fine,’ said Seward. ‘This way we don’t have an audience. Or, if you prefer, we can do it at the station?’

Drake shook his head.

‘Here is good,’ he agreed with a sigh. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘For a start, your movements on the night Tamara was murdered.’

Drake looked at them, his mouth hanging open in shock.

‘You think I’m a
suspect
?’ he said.

‘At this moment we’re asking this same question of everyone who knew Tamara to help eliminate them from the enquiry,’ said Taggart. ‘So, could you give us details of your movements on the night in question?’

‘When was it?’ asked Drake.

Seward thought that Drake looked as if he would have difficulty remembering what had happened to him a few hours ago, let alone some days before. But then, that could be a clever ploy. Drake thought for a bit, then he began his story. According to Drake they’d held a party at the house on the night Tamara Armstrong had been murdered. Tamara Armstrong had not been amongst those invited. Taggart took down a list of names that Drake gave them as having been at the party. According to Drake, he hadn’t left the house at all that night; or the next day until about three in the afternoon to go and buy some milk and cigarettes.

After the practicalities were out of the way, with names, addresses and mobile numbers of the people Drake claimed were his witnesses, Seward switched the subject back to the film.

‘What’s it about, this film of yours?’ she asked.

‘Pagan sacrifice,’ said Drake.

‘What sort of sacrifice?’ asked Taggart. ‘Cutting people’s heads off?’

Drake shook his head. ‘Being eaten by crows,’ he said.

‘Crows?’ echoed Taggart.

‘I wanted to do a big burning thing. Like in
The Wicker Man
. But there’s these fascists in Health and Safety who say you need all sorts of licences. So instead I’m going for crows.’

‘How does the sacrifice work?’ asked Seward.

‘The victim is laid out in the middle of a stone circle. We’re using Castlerigg outside Keswick. You know it?’

Seward and Taggart nodded.

‘The victim has honey and stuff smeared on her eyes and throat, and the crows come down and peck her eyes and throat out. It’s like symbolic.’

‘Aren’t crows difficult to train to do that sort of thing?’

Drake smiled, smugly.

‘Tight close-ups. Lots of cutaways,’ he said. ‘No one uses real birds.’

‘Hitchcock did,’ said Seward. ‘They drew blood from Tippi Hedren when he was shooting
The Birds
.’

‘Yeah, but Hitchcock was a control freak,’ said Drake. ‘He had a thing about tormenting blonde women.’ Taggart gave Seward a look of appeal that said: ‘Can we finish this before he starts giving us a lecture about his favourite film directors, and you join in with him?’

‘Have you got a copy of the script?’ asked Seward.

‘Why?’ asked Drake. ‘You need it for some sort of evidence? Everything I’ve said is the truth. It’s crows.’

‘We’d still like to see a copy of the script,’ insisted Seward.

Drake shrugged, and then hauled himself out of bed, revealing a pair of loose underpants. He went over to the table, cleared some clothes off it, and produced a few typewritten pages stapled together.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘I was looking at it last night because we start filming in a couple of days. I want the ambience to be right for it when we’re at Castlerigg, so we’re doing it on June 21st. The Summer Solstice.’

As he handed the script to Seward, he told her warningly, ‘This is copyright, you know. I don’t want anyone ripping it off.’

‘Trust me, I’m a police officer,’ said Seward, straight-faced.

Once they were back outside the house, Taggart took a long, deep breath.

‘At last, I can breathe again!’ she said.

Seward smiled.

‘I know the feeling,’ she said. ‘I feel like we ought to spray ourselves with disinfectant. One thing’s for sure: if our murderer is, and I quote, ‘fastidious and organized’, then it certainly isn’t our friend Drake.’

As the two women walked back to their car, Taggart asked, curious: ‘What did you want a copy of his script for? It’s gonna be crap.’

‘Maybe,’ said Seward. ‘But, like I said, I’m a film nut. And who knows what interesting things it might tell us.’