Saxon (23 page)

Saxon stood up and walked towards Groves.

‘Any prints on it?

‘None, it’s like new, sir.’

‘Let’s play it and see what delights it holds. Mr McCormack,
do you have a tape machine that we can use for a moment?’

Mr McCormack took him to the hi-fi, and Saxon pushed the tape in and set it to play. Nothing happened for the first ten seconds, then the same mechanical voice as the Mancini message.

They stood in silence for a moment to make sure there was nothing else on the tape. Saxon rewound it and placed it back in the bag. He thanked Mrs Lyons and paid another brief visit to the crime scene, and then he and Parker drove back to Brighton with the tape.

They hardly spoke during the journey. Neither of them could remember such an eventful and stressful day.

Chapter 13

Thursday, June13, 7.20PM

Steve Tucker sauntered along the seafront with a smile on his face. He had several reasons to be happy. Jake Dalton had been arrested for murder – this made Jake a celebrity, which in turn made Tucker one too because he knew him; worked with him, no less.

Tucker was on his way to meet his friend Lee Fry, who was a small, bald and painfully thin man, unfortunately for him. Like Tucker, school had been a dreadful experience for Lee. Children being often quite cruel, the inevitable nickname was soon to rear its head, “Small Fry”. As nicknames go this was not so bad, especially to the kids who were called “Shithead” or “Arse Face”.

Fry didn’t care about the other children; he was an only child and only really cared about number one. He still lived with his parents, who were now retired – living on a council housing estate on the north edge of Brighton. He had known Tucker for most of his life; they were in the same class at school and shared the same interests – sex, drugs and booze. Both of them were frequently hauled up in front of the headmaster, literally because they were incapable of walking – being either stoned out of their skulls or drunk.

Tucker was planning to meet Fry at a pub called the Old Ship. It was a “Goth” pub: you weren’t allowed in unless you wore a combination of black or black, with the usual leather and silver rings, either through your ears, nose or nipples. The less visible piercings didn’t count. The place was patronised by art and university students, and had a reputation for being a “hard” pub. But with modern youngsters, a fight usually constituted a bit of slapping and some bad language.

The hard reputation was gained during the 50s and 60s when gangs of Teddy Boys, Mods and Rockers fought their battles on
the beach, briefly stopping to tank up in the pub. Then back to the beach to slash a few more of the enemy with a flick knife or flog them with a bicycle chain.

Tucker arrived to see people standing on the pavement drinking. The place was throbbing. This was heaven for Tucker – he saw it as a chance to squeeze through the mass of bodies to get to the bar. He thought to himself that an orgasm followed by a nice cool lager was what he needed after a long day “at the office” as he called it. However, this little pleasure of his was not without risk.

Tucker was well-known at this pub; the regulars didn’t like the smell of him, and they, like the people he worked with, were naturally suspicious of him.

Tucker thrust his way through the mass of drinkers, attracting some shocked glances from almost every woman he came into contact with. A few of the men scowled at him as well. Possibly something to do with the way he used his groin. He was smirking by the time he got through.

He found Fry sitting in a corner on his own. Lee Fry was similar to Tucker in many ways – not physically, but they shared an almost identical IQ. Unfortunately for them, two low IQ’s didn’t make a genius. This was a fact that puzzled Fry from time to time.

He was born in Liverpool, but his parents moved south when he was seven years old; he was there long enough to pick up the accent. But he didn’t remember much else. For years, he had listened to stories from his father about the early hard years back up north; he used it to get sympathy by stating that he never had the chances that other people had.

Apart from being stupid, his main handicap was drink. The planet earth didn’t have enough of the stuff to satisfy his thirst. The one thing that slowed down his drinking was lack of coordination – due to drunkenness. His sexual preferences were similar to Tucker’s, but only if money was due to change hands. He had
several convictions for gross indecency. He viewed that as a rather unfortunate occupational hazard.

Tucker flopped into the seat next to Fry. They nodded to each other – not smiling, they were being cool and manly. To the disgust of the people around them, they blatantly eyed up the women nearest to their table. Until that is, the men who were with the women made it obvious that to continue would be dangerous for them, and could even have an effect on the style of wheelchair they would have to choose several weeks hence.

‘Don’t like this fuckin’ place,’ said Tucker, as he finished his pint noisily, slurping down the last dregs.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ grunted Fry, looking at Tucker under heavy eyelids – he was at least four pints ahead of his friend.

‘Fuckin’ tarts aren’t friendly.’

‘They never are with you – wanker.’

‘Why is that, Lee? I’m the same as anyone else, ain’t I?’ said Tucker, with genuine puzzlement in his voice.

‘Yeah, mate, but you do stink a bit, don’t ya?’

‘I don’t fuckin’ stink, you drunken fucker, I ’ave a bath every now and then – even if I don’t need it.’

‘You stink of death, probably from where you work; but you stink of sweat all the time anyway. So the death stink adds to it, dunnit?’ Fry wasn’t exactly expecting an answer. And one was not forthcoming. He tried to explain further. ‘I mean, no tart in her right mind is going to want some smelly git like you stinkin’ of death an’ sweat givin’ her one an’ slobberin’ all over her, is she?’

‘Bitches don’t know what they’re missing,’ Tucker threw in, before forcing his way through the crowd to get another couple of pints.

They drank and smoked and openly leered until closing time and were the last to be asked to leave the pub. The landlord was firm but polite to them – after all, they, with their regular drinking, paid more than enough for his once-a-year trip to
Majorca. And though there were other regulars to the pub, these two were the fastest drinkers he had ever come across in his life.

They staggered from the pub to the beach, which was well lit. It was a full moon and, like children, they threw stones into the waves, then they threw them at each other until it hurt too much. A couple of times they misjudged the size of the waves as they broke on the beach, and their shoes filled up with water. Although the temperature of the air was high, the seawater, as usual around the coast of Britain, was not particularly warm.

When their feet became uncomfortable, they climbed up the beach to the sea wall, sat down, looked at the pier and smoked. The youth of Brighton was still out and about, couples walked on the beach holding hands and a few lay on the beach courting – a few had gone beyond that stage and were practicing egg fertilisation.

Tucker was the first to speak. ‘I think I’m turnin’ full-time normally sexualised – I’ve like started to notice strange things about meself. I don’t fancy blokes any more. Know what I mean?’

‘No,’ said Fry looking the other way.

‘What do you mean, no? You’re fuckin’ thick as pig shit, you are.’

Fry looked at his friend aghast. ‘Me…thick, give me a fuckin’ break. I remember when you bought that E tablet from the bloke in the disco…Steve, an M&M sweet turned sideways don’t make it into an E tablet for Christ’s sake. Twenty fuckin’ quid for a sweet…no wonder he told you not to chew it – you’d have found the fuckin’ peanut if you had, you bleedin’ tosser. Anyway, I’m not thick, I’m dislaxtic – or somethin’ like that, well, that’s what they told me anyway. You’ve always been a bit bent you dick ’ed, you don’t just get over it like that,’ Fry said with a look of authority. ‘It’s not like guts ache yer daft git. Anyway, what’s brought this on – your periods stopped or somethin’?’

‘Funny man, bleedin’ wanker,’ said Tucker quietly, looking the other way, trying to cultivate an air of mystery by letting the
smoke escape from his nostrils slowly. The effect was lost due to the fit of coughing it induced.

‘There’s a tart I work with, I think, no, what I mean is, she fancies me.’

‘Oh yeah, and what makes you think that, you tosser?’

‘Well, for starters, she don’t complain about me as much as some of the others.’ Tucker allowed himself a little smile at his joke.

‘Melanie’s ’er name, fuckin’ good tits on ’er too. Someone I work with said she looked like a dead heat in a ziplin race – whatever that’s supposed to mean. Are they big?’

‘Are what big?’ said Fry, not really interested.

‘Ziplins or whatever the fuckers are called?’

‘How the fuck am I supposed to know, you toss pot?’ Fry said with a whine in his voice. ‘Steve, she don’t fancy you – why the fuck should she, you’re just a stiff scrubber. That’s all you do all fuckin’ day, is scrub stiffs.’

Tucker started to sulk. He couldn’t think of anything to say. He wanted to be cool. He wanted to crush Fry with his wit but a suitably damning reply eluded him. He gave up. Looking down at the beach, he let some drool drop from his continuously open mouth to the pebbles below.

He remained silent for some minutes – until the memory of why he was sulking faded into insignificance. It was one of his few redeeming features. He wasn’t one to harbour a grudge. Then, suddenly with no warning, Tucker stood up and walked off.

Fry was startled. He wasn’t used to unpredictable behaviour from Tucker. ‘Where you going, Steve?’ Fry called after him but Tucker didn’t stop or even glance back.

Tucker crossed the road, bumping into a few people and banging his hand down hard on the roof of a passing car, causing the driver to stop and consider whether it was worth getting out and kicking him around the road for a while. But no chance –
Tucker had stalked off. By this time, Fry had decided that he didn’t want to be left alone, so he ran after his friend and caught up with him after a couple of hundred yards.

‘Well, tell me where you’re going then?’ whined Fry, having to run to keep up with him.

Tucker smirked. ‘I’m going to see my Melanie…you can come as long as you keep the noise down.’ Tucker’s face took on a determined look and he quickened his pace.

‘What are you talkin’ about?’ said Fry, amazed, even through the haze of alcohol. ‘It’s nearly one o’clock in the fuckin’ mornin’, she’ll be in bed.’ He had visions of Melanie, assuming she really existed, calling the police to complain about unwanted late-night callers.

Tucker turned to Fry, with a look of superiority on his greasy face. ‘Don’t you think I don’t know that, you fuckwit? Of course, she’ll be in bed, how else am I going to be able to see her at this time of night – fuck, I wish I was famous, then she’d want to come and see me, in the daytime as well I suppose.’

It dawned on Fry that the plan was to see the place where this Melanie lived and maybe try to look in through the window. So now, they would get done for prowling rather than causing a disturbance. A little incoherent voice in the back of his head tried to tell him this was not a good idea. But Fry wasn’t really listening to his inner voices. Tucker was his friend, after all.

So Fry didn’t answer, he just lit a couple of cigarettes and handed one to Tucker. They walked in companionable silence for ten minutes, ending up in School Terrace, which ran parallel to the seafront, up behind the hospital. At the end of the terrace, Tucker led Fry up a narrow passage leading to the back of the tall Victorian houses. At the end of the passage, Tucker turned to the right and gestured for Fry to be quiet. They walked for about fifty yards and Tucker pushed open a wooden door that took them into the back yard of one of the houses.

Up against the building stood a fire escape, which led up to
the roof. It looked to be a bit rusty in places, but Tucker knew that basically it was secure. His confidence was growing by the minute.

Fry had to say something. He whispered, ‘What are we doing here, Steve? We’ll be right in the shit if we get caught.’

‘Shut yer face. Melanie lives up there – an’ we’re going to see her – well I mean, I’ve seen her. I’m going to show her to you.’ Tucker bent down to undo his laces.

Fry wasn’t too keen on heights. ‘I’m not sure I want to see her that badly. I mean, I’m sure she’s really nice an’ that, but let’s fuck off, Steve, before we get in trouble,’ he said in his most appealing tone of voice. ‘If the police get me again, they’re not gonna let me off with just a caution next time,’ he whined.

Tucker was struggling with a knot.

Fry wasn’t going to give up. ‘Anyway, what do you mean “see her”? You think we’re just going to climb up Mount fuckin’ Everest here and knock on her window an’ say, scuse me, Miss Melanie, wake up please, this little pervert what you work with wants to say hello an’ show you to his friend at whatever fuckin’ time it is in the fuckin’ morning? Oh, and while you’re standing up, please show us yer tits? Do me a fuckin’ favour.’

Tucker clamped his hand over Fry’s mouth. ‘Shut yer fuckin’ face. I’ve done this loads of times,’ he hissed. ‘She sleeps with the window open in the summer. All I do is look in through the window – she never wakes up. Now, just follow me an’ don’t say nothin’, there’s other bastards livin’ here as well as her.’

Tucker took his hand away. Fry gasped in a lungful of clean air. Tucker didn’t wait for a reply; he’d already taken his shoes off and put them against the wall. He started to climb the steps. He had to concentrate on keeping his mouth shut, although that was a struggle, given the extra oxygen needed for the climb.

Several of the other occupants had decided to keep their windows open due to the heat wave, so Tucker took extra care not to make a sound. Fry, being stupid and, as usual, quite
incapable of making his own decisions, followed a few seconds later. Without the bright moonlight, the climb would have been tedious and a great deal more dangerous, but the light was strong enough for them to see the steps and tread more confidently.

Melanie’s flat was on the top floor and, sure enough, her window was open. They crouched down either side of the window and Tucker gently lifted the blind. Melanie, however, was not in bed. She was in her sitting room quietly reading.

‘She’s not fuckin’ there. Shit, she must be out,’ cursed Tucker under his breath.

‘Yeah, she’s probably out with ’er real boyfriend, who’s givin’ ’er one up against some wall, right now.’

‘Don’t say that. I don’t like it when people say things like that,’ said Tucker, looking at Fry with real anger in his eyes.

Fry missed the message in his eyes and went on, ‘Yeah I’ll bet ’e’s got ‘er up against a wall somewhere, all groanin’ and sweaty.’