Saxon (11 page)

‘You can see how it would look to a suspicious policeman’s mind. If you can’t explain where you were last night, and what with people knowing that you didn’t exactly get on with the two ladies, well, people might put two and two together…’ Saxon paused for his words to take effect.

Pike looked up. ‘Give me a minute to get me ’ed together, you’s confusing me somethin’ rotten.’ He paused to gather his thoughts. ‘I might have seen something last night, I was out, but I wasn’t snooping. I never done nothin’ like that. I ain’t never bin no fuckin’ pervert. I wasn’t watchin’ the poof women, and they was poofs you know; I don’t ’old with that, you know.’

He nodded across at Saxon, as if any right-thinking man would be agreeing with him. ‘I was in the field behind their ’ouse, down the far end. I done a sweep with me lamp and I seen some eyes. But there was something different about them they was in the wrong place – too high they was.’ He shuddered. ‘Not many six-foot rabbits round ’ere I can tell you. Fair gave me the shits.’ He shook his head, as if the memory was still too real. ‘At first I thought it was an owl flyin’ in my direction like, but it never moved, just fuckin’ hovered there, like it was lookin’ at me – nearly crapped me self, I did. Then suddenly they was gone.’ He stopped and Saxon waited to see if anything else was forthcoming.

Pike obliged. ‘I come ’ome fuckin’ fast, I can tell you, like shit off an ’ot shovel.’

Saxon felt encouraged by this information. ‘Tell me, Mr Pike, if you thought you saw someone lurking around your field at that time of night, why didn’t you ring the police? You could have saved the lives of those two women.’

Pike shrugged with a look of total disbelief. Saxon went on, ‘How do you know it wasn’t an owl sitting in a bush, Mr Pike?
Looking in your direction? Maybe it went to sleep, that would account for the eyes suddenly vanishing.’

Pike was quick to respond. ‘Shows what you fuckin’ townie people know, don’t it?’ said Pike, triumphantly. ‘Owls don’t nod off to sleep at night, they fuckin’ ’unt, don’t they? Starve to death otherwise, wouldn’t they? Don’t you know nothing about the countryside?’ It was so clearly a rhetorical question that neither Saxon nor Parker felt called upon to answer.

Pike hadn’t finished. ‘And there ain’t no trees in that spot for one to perch on anyway. No, that weren’t no owl, that was someone standin’ there watchin’ me. I know the countryside, an’ I know country people, they don’t go an’ stand about at night unless they’re poachers, and there aren’t none of them round here, or they’ve lost their bleedin’ nuts. An’ if I ’ad called you lot, ’ow long would it’ve taken you to fuckin’ get here? Answer me that.’

‘Mr Pike, do you think that if it was someone watching you that they would have recognised you, bearing in mind that the light would have blinded them temporarily?’

Pike looked slyly at Saxon. ‘Don’t be daft, if it was a local person they would know I goes lampin,’ but if it was a stranger all they’d ’ave to do is follow me tyre tracks across the fields to ’ere. But don’t you go worryin’ ’bout me, I’ve got me dogs and if it comes to it I’ve got me guns too.’

‘But of course, Mr Pike, we can’t condone the use of guns in that sort of situation. If you have any worries then you must call us,’ said Saxon, handing Pike his card.

‘What’s the good of that, you lot only hurry to help rich people in big ’ouses.’ He was belligerent again, sensing that the interview was coming to an end and that somehow, against the odds, he had survived much better than he’d expected to. ‘I can look after meself. You keep yer card and give it to someone who needs it.’

Saxon took the card back but placed it next to the phone,
which was by the front door, underneath what looked like a dead chicken.

‘Well, I’ll just leave it here. Let’s just say you can use it if you think of anything that may be of interest.’

Saxon could tell that for all his bravado, Pike was a frightened man.

Lurch was staring up at his master, they clearly had an unspoken bond. The poor dog was picking up on the fear that Pike was exuding and it too had a frozen expression of blind terror etched on its face. Lurch farted nervously and audibly, and the smell, combined with the odour of dog piss permeating the cottage, was too much for the policemen. Russ, who had crept back into the cottage and was dozing on the remains of a rug, was oblivious, whimpering gently from time to time in his sleep as he no doubt fantasised about policemen’s legs.

They thanked Pike for his help, told him that he would have to make a statement and were quickly out the door to the safety of the car. Saxon spoke first. ‘Christ, Parker, what does that dog eat to make that kind of smell?’ They both breathed deeply, grateful for some relatively fresh air.

‘Right,’ Saxon went on. ‘I want SOCO to take a look around that field – get the charming Mr Pike to take them to the exact spot where he saw the phantom eyes. There may be some interesting footprints, but then again, it is a bit dry maybe for footprints.’

‘Yes,’ Parker answered. ‘We’ve ruled out sleepy owls and we never did believe in six-foot rabbits,’ he laughed. ‘So there’s got to be some other explanation.’

‘But even if there’s the remotest possibility it’s our killer,’ Saxon said, ‘why on earth would he go into the field in the first place?’

‘God knows, sir. Maybe he heard Pike’s Land Rover cruising around the field and just wanted to check in case he’d been seen.’

Saxon paused for a moment, then said with a wry smile,
‘Shame Pike didn’t get a twitchy trigger finger and accidentally blow his brains out.’

‘Come now, sir, that would never do would it?’ Parker paused for a few seconds. ‘Not a bad idea now you mention it.’

Friday, May 17, Thicket Lane, Upper Norwood, 11.00AM

Keith Jenner was speechless. This was not his normal condition. He put the phone down on the policeman and slumped into a chair. He had made no response to the condolences offered, but the police were used to dealing with people in shock and didn’t take it personally. Not that Jenner would’ve cared about offending a policeman.

His mind was working overtime. Vaguely aware of the news reports the day before about murders in Sussex, he had never imagined that it could have involved Babs. His sister was dead.

His stomach shrivelled at the thought of any incriminating evidence the police might find at her place.
Please, God, let her have been careful
. She would’ve been. She was clever. She was the bright one. Their mother had seen to that by getting her into a decent school.

When Mr and Mrs Jenner had parted company, Keith had had no hesitation about going with his father. He knew which side his bread was buttered on. Dad was much more fun and life would be better with him. He occasionally wondered how his life would’ve turned out if he’d stayed with Babs and his mum. Well, at least he was alive, even if he was apprehensive about what the next few days had to bring.

He wondered about her will.

Friday, May 17, Cookbridge, Sussex, 4.30PM

Gertraud Bishop held a tissue to her mouth, struggling to understand what had been said. She’d been dreading a phone call like this, ever since she’d seen the news report. How could it have happened? How did they know? What would Angus say if this
was all resurrected? How was she going to keep it quiet from him? Why had she ever got involved?

She needed a Prozac.

Saturday, May 18, Dingmer Gliding Club, 4.30PM

Jake Dalton made a tight turn, and he looked to his right as the wing of his glider bowed and strained under the G-force. Jake was a more than competent pilot, and from his early childhood had dreamt of being a fighter pilot. However, the opposition from his parents was overwhelming, causing him during his teens to run away several times, weather permitting of course.

Mr and Mrs Dalton senior were both doctors, his mother was a consultant orthopaedic surgeon and his father a plastic surgeon. Money was not a problem. It was made clear to Jake that they would be so proud if he followed the family tradition and embarked on a career in medicine.

He caved in, reluctantly at first, but after a few months at St Thomas’s he realised that medicine could be a lucrative career and maybe it was quite interesting too.

Jake was six feet tall and handsome. Friends used to joke that he resembled an Action Man toy, sporting a similar haircut, and always wearing combats. He was fit and strong, a keep-fit fanatic who regularly worked out and attended martial arts classes.

This time of the year the weather was perfect for gliding, plenty of thermals meant it was possible to keep your glider in the air almost indefinitely, or until nature called suggesting you sat somewhere else. Jake decided to glide until the light started to fade, running through a routine of rolls and loops and a spot of hill soaring.

He worked well with Dr Clarke and found him intellectually stimulating, he knew so much, with his years of experience. While Jake was struggling to find the solution to a problem, Clarke would sometimes pre-empt him by not only knowing the answer but also the question before it was even asked. He had a
knack for knowing, and a definite talent for anticipation.

For three years, Jake had been Clarke’s assistant, finding the job both interesting and challenging, but also enjoying the fact that certain stresses of operating as a normal doctor were removed. He didn’t actually have to keep any of his patients alive. It was a bit late for that. And the job gave him loads of time to fly.

The view from the glider was breathtaking. From his 3,000ft perch, he could clearly see from Ditchling Beacon to Eastbourne, and he thought that if he climbed another 2,000ft or so, he would easily be able to see France quite clearly. The wind speed was more than enough for him to angle the glider in such a way that it stopped moving forward. It was a strange sensation, a bit like flying on a kite by a non-existent wire. You couldn’t really describe it to someone, you had to show them.

Jake held the aircraft there for a few seconds until it stalled, the nose dropped and it started to lose height. Then he went looking for thermals. These are found over freshly ploughed areas or cornfields on a sunny day as they reflect the heat of the sun. Once he located his thermal, he turned to the right and dug the wing that was being buffeted by the rising hot air into the thermal, and pulled back on the stick gently as the warm air lifted the glider.

Soon he was at 6,000ft, the only sound coming from the wind as it skimmed over the glider. Total silence only came if the angle of the aircraft was acute enough to slow it down to stall speed. The nose would then drop and the glider would gain speed and back came the noise.

When the time to land arrived he lost the first 5,000ft with what could only be described as a power dive. He bottomed out at 1,000ft and at 600ft he started to operate the air brakes, strips of wood or glass fibre, which at the pull of a lever protrude up out of the wing and disrupt the flow of air, causing the glider to slow down and lose altitude.

The glider stops and drops in a series of steps, until you have it correctly positioned for landing. You didn’t get a second chance, so it had to be good. It was. He made his turn and the glider’s speed was perfect; he was lined up well with the grass runway and it was a textbook touchdown. All his landings went well, and he was a natural pilot, if such a thing existed. The glider bumped along on its single front wheel for a while and had completely come to a stop before it gently tipped to the left and settled on its wing. Perfect.

The weather was fine with hardly any wind. Jake and a fellow pilot dragged the glider to its parking space, threw over a tarpaulin, and pegged it down. Often at the end of a long flight he would go to the clubhouse, and socialise with the other pilots and rather like fishermen exchange stories of the biggest thermals or the strongest crosswinds and how they fought them. But tonight, Jake was tired and decided to go home and slob out. Saturdays were a big night in Brighton but he wasn’t in the mood right now.

The track from the gliding club to the main road was long and extremely rural. His car was not really suited to it, and he was forced to drive from side to side and avoid the potholes. Either side of the track the terrain was typical Sussex, one side the flatness of the Weald, and the other, sheep-cropped Downs dotted with dark green gorse bushes and the odd chalk pit. Once Jake hit the main road, he smoothly joined the flow of traffic and sped off in the direction of Brighton and home.

Saturday, May 18, Pavilion Square, Brighton, 8.19PM

Saxon punched in the four-digit code to unlock the main outer door of the house. He checked his mailbox without enthusiasm – bills as usual – and entered the large circular hall. In the middle was a small two-person lift with a concertina slide door surrounded by a cage. Around the lift was the main staircase, the original one having been ripped out long ago. The house was an
unusual mixture of Regency style with a touch of 1920s Art Deco. He rather liked it. Every window seemed to contain a stained-glass peacock or a sleek woman holding a fan.

His flat was on the top floor and often he ran up the four flights of stairs; it was part of his somewhat limited keep-fit regime. But not tonight. He was on automatic as he took the lift. As he approached the third floor, a voice startled him.

‘Good evening, caged cop. And how are we today?’ It was Francesca, his neighbour on the floor below. She was taking rubbish to the chute and she waved at him as he headed skywards. She smiled up at him as he opened the door of the lift at the top.

‘Fine, Fran, I’m fine.’ Then he smiled back, realising that it was a while since anyone had actually cared how he was. He could hear voices coming from her flat. ‘Well, actually I’m frustrated and exhausted, but bearing up. And how are you?’ He put his key in the lock.

‘I’m all the better knowing there’s a big strong policeman in the place. I count on you to protect us all from the bad guys.’ She laughed.

He laughed too. ‘Not so much emphasis on the big, if you don’t mind,’ he answered, patting his stomach.