Saxon (24 page)

Tucker could feel the anger and frustration rising fast. He pushed Fry in the face with the flat of his hand. ‘Just you fuck off – she wouldn’t do that, not my Melanie. Not while she’s interested in me, that is.’

Fry shrugged, roughly pushing his hand away, and stood up. ‘You need serious help, you do – I’m goin’ ’ome, you do what ya want.’

Fry started to climb down the stairs, leaving Tucker to make decisions. Not an ideal situation. He sat down and thought for a while and slowly the idea crawled into his head that if Melanie was out, then he could creep into her bedroom and borrow some of her underwear. She would never guess that it was he who took them. As he grew more excited by the idea, the bolder he became.

The smell of her perfume wafting from the room made him tremble with anticipation, this combined with the element of danger was almost more than he could bear. The idea of her suddenly coming into the room, and seeing him there caused his already erect penis to shoot him in the groin as usual, somewhat
earlier than expected. He fantasised himself throwing her on the bed, tearing her clothes off and giving her the best fuck she could have ever wished for. She would beg for more, but he would be manly and tell her to wait while he laid back and smoked. Just like in the movies.

Melanie finished her book; she was sleepy and the big decision to be made was – sofa, where she had been lying for the last three hours, or bed, which required much more effort. Bed won.

Tucker had his hands in her panty drawer as she walked in. She screamed when she saw the outline of a person against the moonlight which streamed into her bedroom. Tucker was relieved that she didn’t stop to switch the light on. She ran one way and he ran the other. His flight through the window and back onto the fire escape almost ended in disaster for him. He banged violently into the railing, nearly toppling over the edge.

Melanie ran to the flat below, and hammered on the door until her neighbour woke and opened it. By the time he was on the phone to the police, Tucker was heading back to the beach where he decided to lay low until all the sirens stopped. He took out his mobile phone and called Fry.

‘Lee,’ Tucker panted down the phone, ‘I fucked up, I need some ’elp, where are you?’

‘I’m nearly at me pad – what happened, you toss pot?’ Fry laughed.

‘Fuckin’ bitch walked in as I was standin’ in ‘er room, didn’t she,’ he gasped.

‘Oh, what happened to “my Melanie” then? Now she’s a fuckin’ bitch,’ Fry teased.

‘I don’t think she saw me, cos she never put the lights on – so I legged it down the fire escape and now there’s pigs all over the place. I need somewhere to stay for the night so I got an alibi,’ Tucker said in a grovelling tone.

‘No, don’t even think it, you can’t come ’ere, you wanker. I’ll
meet you by the old West Pier. I don’t want you to be seen arriving here at this time of night. I’ll bring a few cans and if anyone asks, we can say we were there all night.’

Twenty minutes later Fry found Tucker huddled in the doorway of an old derelict fish and chip stall. The West Pier was crumbling into the sea and most of the surrounding amusement stalls and small souvenir shops had failed because of it. The majority of tourists to Brighton gathered around the Palace Pier, which was still a thriving enterprise. The only reason to look at the old pier was to see the starlings, as thousands flocked above it at sunset.

Fry handed Tucker a couple of six-packs, and said, ‘Follow me, dick ‘ed.’

Slowly, they climbed the steps from the lower part of the promenade up to the street level. After a few minutes of standing by the barred gate to the pier – trying not to look suspicious, they squeezed through a hole in the barbed wire.

Fry had been there many times. Usually to smoke a few joints, but when he was younger, to sniff glue. The journey to Fry’s little den of vice was precarious – a large percent of the floor was missing, and the sky was visible in many places.

More imaginative people would have heard the echo of the past, the sounds of holidaymakers, singing to the tune of a great Wurlitzer or just tapping their feet to a brass band. The atmosphere was wasted on them. They just walked.

Tucker followed behind, carefully treading in the same places as Fry – the last thing he wanted to do was to fall through the floor. If he fell, and survived the fall, the water would finish him off. He was to swimming, what Vlad the Impaler was to political correctness. Fry took Tucker to a corner and they both sat on an old bench and started to drink.

‘We ought to stay here for a while, at least until the pigs go back to the piggery,’ said Fry, trying to appear worldly. ‘They never come here. Fuckin’ good place this, it’s a bit spooky at first,
but you get used to it.’

Tucker didn’t respond; he just sat looking insecure. After an hour, they were both very drunk, but the adrenalin was still coursing through them. They discussed the merits of taking a stroll together along the seafront and maybe rolling some innocent bystander for a bit of cash. Serve them right for being out at that time of the night. The idea seemed good enough and they set off along the pier. The fact that he was so drunk prevented Tucker from feeling the pain he inflicted on himself as his leg suddenly disappeared into the void beneath the pier. Blood trickled down from a gash below his left knee, but he ignored it and started to laugh hysterically.

A few minutes later, they emerged, falling through the barbed wire and turning left to walk in the direction of Hove.

They didn’t have to go far before they saw a potential victim. Sitting in one of the wind shelters was a man. He had his feet on the seat, with his knees drawn up in front of his face and his head resting on his hands. His black baseball cap covered his face. He seemed to be quite small, but the light was not good, and his clothing was dark – making him difficult to judge size-wise. Fry always carried a small knife, although he had never actually used it on anyone, it was more to give him a sense of security.

They decided that the best way to handle the mugging was for the pair of them to jump the guy, and hold his hat down over his eyes. They would then let him have a quick look at the knife, take his wallet and run. They split up and approached the man from both sides. Fry grabbed the back of his head and pushed his cap over his eyes, as planned. Tucker said nothing; he merely stood close to the man with the intention of keeping him on the bench.

It didn’t work. The man sprang to his feet. He was much bigger than they had estimated – much bigger, and he was strong. In a flash, he grabbed them both by the back of their necks, squeezing so tightly that neither of them could utter a
sound, and ran pushing them towards the railings. His strength, combined with the precision of his grip on a particular nerve, overpowered them immediately.

With the speed they were running, all it took was a gentle push to launch them over the railing headfirst to the lower pavement thirty feet below. The last sound they heard was a voice that one of them thought he recognised, a second before their skulls smashed into the concrete below. ‘Leave the planet, scum.’

Friday June 14, Brighton Seafront, 5.30AM

Saxon dipped under the police tape and walked over to Parker who had been at the crime scene for thirty minutes already. They nodded to each other, then, Saxon lifted the sheet that covered, first Tucker then Fry. He grimaced at the injuries. Parker handed him one of the plastic cups of coffee he had been holding.

‘One of them looks familiar, Parker. Who is he?’ he said trying to stifle a yawn.

‘The ugly one, is one Steven Tucker, he’s an attendant at the mortuary – or was, I should say. The uglier one is Lee Fry – small-time crook, rent boy, several convictions for mugging, burglary, buggery and thuggery; he’s known for carrying a knife occasionally. There is a knife over there, and I would say that by the position of it, it came from his hand when he made contact with the planet.’

Saxon sipped his coffee, ‘What about Tucker, what do we know about him?’

Parker removed his jacket and draped it over the edge of a small rowing boat, which had been drawn up the beach. ‘Tucker is a bit more interesting – like Fry he was bisexual, but he never charged for his services. He is well-known by the local police for basically being a pervert and a pain in the arse. Bit of a Peeping Tom – he was barred from most of the pubs in Brighton for lewd and inappropriate behaviour. Educationally sub-normal, or I
suppose I should say, educationally challenged. There was something interesting in his pocket, sir.’ Parker took a plastic bag from one of the SOCOs. ‘One pair of ladies’ pants. This is where it gets even more interesting – last night a call came in that a girl living in School Terrace reported a prowler in her flat. She was adamant that the prowler took a pair of her knickers from her bedroom, counted them I suppose.’

Saxon felt the warm glow of pride in his sergeant. He had obviously been busy since the crack of dawn. ‘Okay, Parker, but what has that, got to do with this? They could be his girlfriend’s pants, maybe he carries them with him for good luck – believe me, people do stranger things.’

‘The fascinating bit, sir, is that, one: the girl worked with Tucker. Two: Tucker was bisexual, Fry was the same, and now they are both dead. Three: Jake works at the mortuary.’

Saxon cut in. ‘It does seem to be centring on the mortuary. But I can’t for the life of me, understand why.’ He paused, and added, ‘Jake, as we both know, is in custody and couldn’t have done this. So the question has to be – were these two killed by a new fresh killer, or was it the old one, who has possibly done an excellent job of framing someone else?’ He walked over to the two bodies. ‘How certain are you that these two didn’t have a fight up there and just topple over the edge?’

‘It’s the distance, sir, they are too far from the wall to have just fallen – they flew some distance as you can see, and what’s more, they are too far apart. If they were fighting, they would be closer together.’

Saxon had surmised the scenario already. He wanted Parker to come up with the same theory. ‘Did the girl identify Tucker as the perv who nicked her knickers?’

‘No, sir, she only caught a glimpse of him, the light was off and he was out through the window as soon as she walked in on him,’ said Parker, taking another sip of coffee.

Saxon looked up to the railings at the crowd of people who
had gathered. He gestured to a constable to move them on. ‘What about a time of death, have we got one yet?’

‘Yes, about two hours ago, although it’s a bit tricky to tell in these temperatures, according to Dr Clarke, who has been and gone,’ Parker said, tipping his coffee on the beach.

Saxon and Parker climbed the steps to the upper promenade.

‘Parker, get some PCs and talk to the security people in all of these hotels and find out if any of them have CCTV cameras that would cover this area. Also, get on to traffic; there’s a chance that one of the road cameras might have picked something up.’

Saxon strode off calling back to Parker, ‘Right, Parker, I think it’s time we finished our interview with Jake Dalton, let’s go and wake him up.’

Friday, June 14, Brighton Police Station, 7.00AM

Jake was already awake. He had not slept well since he was arrested. To be incarcerated, knowing that you are innocent, had to rank among the top three most frustrating situations a human being may have to endure. He had his own theories of why it had happened to him of all people. Life had been too easy for him for the major part of his life.

His parents were wealthy, which in turn gave him wealth. The higher-than-average intelligence genes had been successfully handed over to him in the process of cell division. Jake was healthy, strong and handsome. The shit had to hit the fan one day. That day, as far as he was concerned, had come with a long weekend attached.

When Saxon appeared at his cell door, Jake was pleased. At least it gave him the chance to have his say, and he knew that Saxon was a reasonable man and would listen with an open mind. He also knew that if it was up to Superintendent Mitchell, the key to the cell would have been thrown away days ago – if the evidence was there, that would do for Mitchell – even if he thought it was not quite kosher.

Saxon entered the cell; he sat on the end of the bunk and proceeded to tell Jake about the events of the morning. Parker stood leaning on the doorframe with his arms folded. When Saxon finished, Jake said something, which finally made him realise that Jake was not guilty of murder.

‘Paul, there are elements in this morning’s murders that seem to connect a group of individuals, who just happen to work in the same place – it doesn’t prove anything much. It certainly doesn’t conclusively prove that I’m innocent of the other murders. Unfortunately,’ he added with a half-smile.

Saxon shifted about uncomfortably. He wanted to let Jake go, knowing deep down that he was innocent. Having him there was a complete waste of time.

‘Right, Jake,’ Saxon said standing up, ‘let’s get your Ms Wright in, and have a formal interview for the record. Then I’ll decide what to do.’ He smiled at Jake and stopped at the cell door. Turning, he said, ‘Pack your bags, Jake; I think you’ll be going home later.’

Sarah Wright arrived with her usual businesslike manner, with a smattering of rudeness thrown in for good measure. Most of the officers who came in contact with her, held the opinion that she had seen too many crime thrillers on the television, and was behaving in the way that a brief was supposed to. None of them could be bothered to tell her that this was real life and all she had to do to get good service was to be polite.

Saxon was called the minute she arrived. He talked with her in the interview room while Jake was brought up from his cell. Parker sat next to him and sipped tea. Saxon outlined his thoughts to Ms Wright; she was shocked, but pleased to hear what he said.

‘Commander Saxon, you surprise me…I don’t understand – the evidence, according to you, is so strong. Why on earth are you letting my client go? Could it be that you are a new breed of policeman, one who is capable of thinking for himself? I’m
impressed.’ She smiled sweetly, adding, ‘You’re not a bad bloke for a copper.’