Shades of Evil (7 page)

To take her mind off crank callers last night, she’d studied form, chosen six promising horses and called in on her way to headquarters this morning to place her bets. She had an account with William Hill, but phoning bets through wasn’t so much fun. This way, she could collect her winnings in person.

From the age of about five, when she’d hung about outside the bookie’s in Liverpool, waiting for her dad to place his bets or watch an important race, she’d been fascinated by the places. People coming out of the door, letting clouds of smoke out with them, had either been in high spirits, sometimes happy enough to give her a coin for sweets, or in foul moods and inventing stories for their wives as to where that week’s wages had gone.

Her mother had been horrified to learn that Jill had been within a hundred yards of a bookmaker’s.

‘She hasn’t been inside,’ her dad had protested.

‘She’s been close enough. What sort of example is that to set the girl? Don’t you dare take her anywhere near those places again!’

In future, when Jill had been hanging around waiting for her dad, peering in through the smoke-grimed windows, they’d kept it as their own secret. Then, when she’d been a few years older, probably about eleven, her dad had given her a couple of pounds and she’d known the thrill of choosing a horse and willing it to romp to the finishing post.

‘I’m surprised you’re not snowed in along the lane,’ Bert greeted her.

‘Some of us have sensible vehicles for the job,’ she replied with a smug smile.

‘Roll on summer, I say,’ he muttered. ‘You know where you are then. You know it’ll be raining from morning till night.’

‘Well, yes.’ She laughed at that.

‘You’ll be here to collect your winnings then,’ Bert guessed, shaking his head. ‘I keep telling you, you’re not from these shores. You’ve got the luck of the Irish.’

‘It’s not luck, Bert. It’s sheer skill.’

As he counted out her money, over three hundred pounds, Jill wondered why cash from a bookie was so much more exciting than a salary.

She was leaving at the same time as Tom Canter and they stood in the doorway for a few minutes chatting about the weather and the day’s racing.

‘I don’t suppose they’ve found the bloke who murdered that poor girl yet?’ Tom said as they walked beneath the streetlights towards Jill’s car.

‘Not yet, no.’

‘What a bloody terrible thing to happen. And her only twenty. There’s some wrong buggers in this world and that’s a fact.’

‘You’re right there, Tom.’

‘Her photo were in this evening’s paper,’ he went on, ‘and do you know, I’m sure I’ve seen her about. Can’t think where though.’

‘It’s possible. She used to walk her dog up the hill quite a lot. A small white dog she had. Perhaps you saw her there.’

‘I might have.’

Tom had farmed in Kelton Bridge all his life. He was in his late seventies, a forthright man who didn’t suffer fools gladly and who believed in speaking his mind. Yet now, he looked uncertain.

‘It annoys me when I can’t remember stuff, but yes, I’m sure I’ve seen her before.’

‘If you remember, Tom, will you let me know? Or call the police about it?’

‘I will. Yes, of course I will. I expect they’ll be getting round to calling on me soon. I hear they’re speaking to everyone in the village. They haven’t got to me yet, but I’m so far off the beaten track, they might not bother.’

He could be right. Tom lived a couple of miles out of the village, and while his Land Rover might get through to his farm easily enough, the patrol cars would struggle.

‘I see Clough’s Shelter is awash with floral tributes,’ Tom said. ‘I’ve never seen the point in that. They’ll just rot in the snow.’

‘People like to express their sympathy. It makes them feel better.’

‘Oh, I know that. But it’s all a bit public for my liking. A simple note to her family would be better in my view.’

Jill knew exactly what he meant. She also knew that many of the tributes at the shelter had been left by people who hadn’t known Lauren or her family.

‘It’s a funny old world,’ Tom said. ‘Ah, well, be seeing you, Jill. And if I remember where I saw that young girl, I’ll let you know.’

Max was surprised to see DS Fletcher still at his desk at eight o’clock that evening.

‘Haven’t you got a home to go to, Fletch?’

Fletch, his mouth too full of bacon sandwich to allow speech, made the sign of the cross, as if he was warding off vampires.

‘Ah.’ Max understood immediately. ‘The mother-in-law?’

Nodding, Fletch swallowed his food. ‘Till after Christmas. I’ll be volunteering for any overtime going.’

Max had been unfortunate enough to meet Fletch’s mother-in-law. She’d had high hopes for her daughter, hopes that featured neurosurgeons and rocket scientists. She’d never recovered from watching her daughter marry a copper and she made sure Fletch knew that.

‘I’m about to do a spot of unpaid overtime myself,’ Max told him. ‘Strictly off the record.’

‘Oh?’

Max perched on a small gap on the edge of Fletch’s cluttered desk. ‘You remember Bill Jacobs, don’t you?’

‘I certainly do. Vicious rapist. Killer. Died a couple of weeks back.’

‘That’s him. How about his brother? Remember him?’

‘I’m not likely to forget. The toerag broke one of my ribs.’ Grunting at the remembered injustice, Fletch took another bite of his sandwich.

‘So he did. I’d forgotten that.’

When Bill had appeared in court, his brother Percy had mounted a vigil outside the building. Fletch had arrested him, and suffered a broken rib for his trouble.

‘It’s Percy I’m off to visit,’ Max said. ‘Fancy coming along?’

‘Count me in.’ Fletch swallowed the last of his sandwich, brushed crumbs from trousers to floor, and got to his feet. ‘What do you want with him?’ he asked, grabbing his jacket.

‘Jill’s had some nuisance phone calls,’ Max explained as they headed for the car park. ‘A cat was hanged by her front door, too.’

‘What?’

‘Not one of hers, thank God. A stray she’d been looking after.’

‘She hasn’t mentioned anything.’

‘She’s trying to convince herself it’s just kids messing around. But kids don’t hang cats. Or most kids don’t. Besides,’ he added, taking his car keys from his pocket, ‘since she’s done this Thai boxing thing, she thinks she can take on the world.’

Fletch grinned. ‘I heard about that. What exactly is Thai boxing anyway?’

‘Bloody ridiculous. I gather it’s like normal boxing, but instead of just fists, you can use hands, shins, elbows and knees.’

‘I bet they can scream and bite at the same time. Bloody hell, women have been doing that for years,’ Fletch scoffed, and Max supposed he had a point.

They got in the car, and Max turned the heater on full.

‘She looks good on it though,’ Fletch said as he fastened his seat belt.

She did. Her body was looking very toned which, according to Jill, was the main purpose of the exercise. The self-defence aspect was simply a bonus.

‘She has to do something to counteract all the junk food she eats. Woman can only live on Mars bars alone for so long, Fletch. Her diet’s worse than yours.’

‘It probably is actually,’ he agreed.

There were roadworks a couple of hundred yards from headquarters and, even at this time, there was a queue waiting for the temporary lights to change to green. During the day, half a dozen men leaned on the barriers and stared at an impressive hole they’d made. At this time of night, there was no one in sight.

‘So you reckon Percy Jacobs has been hanging cats?’ Fletch asked.

‘I don’t know. I’m trying to think of someone who might bear Jill a grudge, and his opinion of anyone connected with the force is pretty low. Despite everything, he always maintained that brother of his was innocent. Now that Bill’s dead, maybe he’s out for revenge.’

‘What’s he been up to lately?’

‘Nothing that we know about. Mr Law Abiding.’

‘Sick pervo,’ Fletch muttered.

It took less than fifteen minutes to get to the place Percy Jacobs called home. It was a concrete block of flats on the southern side of Harrington. The residents’ car park could have passed for a scrap yard. Rusting heaps of all descriptions were abandoned there.

Half a dozen youths were messing around looking for trouble. They’d have no problem finding it.

Max got out of the car and approached them.

‘I’ll give you a fiver if my car’s still here, untouched, when I come out.’

‘Make it a tenner,’ one suggested.

‘A fiver or a belt round the ear. Your choice.’

‘OK,’ he agreed, somewhat grudgingly.

With the car as safe as it could be, Max and Fletch crossed the car park to the entrance lobby, trying not to inhale once they reached the stairwell. A hand-penned note taped over the button for the lift read:
Not working.
It looked as if it hadn’t worked for a decade.

‘He’s on the fifth floor,’ Max said, and Fletch groaned.

Once away from the lobby, the stench of urine wasn’t so bad and the artist with the spray can telling them that Daz was a great shag and Maria had big tits hadn’t bothered to go further than the third floor.

‘Number fifty-seven,’ Max said as, breathless, they arrived on the fifth floor.

The door’s flaking paint was blue. A small, square pane of glass was cracked. The handle was loose.

‘How the other half live, eh?’ Fletch said.

Max hammered on the door.

A television could be heard blaring out – an advertisement for washing powder which would go right over Jacobs’ head – so Max knocked again, harder this time.

Eventually, a shuffling sound was heard and a muttered, ‘Hold your horses, can’t you?’

The door opened five inches, enough for Max to get his foot in the gap, and Percy was peering out at them.

Recognition was almost instant. ‘It’s you, is it? I thought there was a strong smell of bacon round here.’

It was a couple of years since Max had seen Jacobs, but he hadn’t improved with age. A grubby sweatshirt was stretched over his belly and his bald head was covered with beads of sweat. A gold hoop earring dangled from one ear and he wore a thick gold chain around his neck. He was wearing black, baggy tracksuit bottoms and black socks.

‘There’s a strong smell, Percy, but it’s not bacon,’ Max told him. ‘Mind if we come in for a word?’

‘Yeah, I do mind. Got a warrant, have you?’

‘Don’t need one.’ Max put his weight behind the door and, as Percy stepped back, Max almost landed on top of him. ‘This is a social call,’ he explained when they’d both recovered.

‘You can’t come barging in here!’

‘That’s where you’re wrong, Percy. We’re off duty so we can do exactly as we like.’

Without waiting for an invite, Max and Fletch walked into the sitting room. A remote control sat on the sofa, but it was so dirty that Max switched off the television at the socket.

‘That’s better. We can hear ourselves think now.’

The place was a mess. An overflowing ashtray and a couple of well-read porn mags shared the low coffee table with empty beer cans.

‘Cleaner’s day off is it, Percy?’ Max asked him.

‘I don’t clean up for pigs like you. Tell me what you want and then bugger off.’

‘What I want,’ Max said, ‘is to know the last time you visited Kelton Bridge.’

‘Eh?’ Percy looked genuinely surprised. ‘What the bleeding ’ell would I go there for? A game of friggin’ bowls?’

‘You tell me.’

‘You what?’

‘Tell me the last time you visited Kelton Bridge,’ Max insisted.

So far, Fletch hadn’t said a word. He was standing in the centre of the room, arms folded across his chest as if he had to keep them that way to stop them flying out and punching Jacobs in the mouth. Max knew how he felt.

‘Can’t remember,’ Jacobs said.

‘Try,’ Max suggested.

‘Perhaps we could refresh your memory,’ Fletch said pleasantly, and Max noticed how he rubbed his mended rib.

‘I’ve not been there for years,’ Jacobs said. ‘Why the hell would I? There’s nowt there for me. Nowt there for anyone.’

‘So what have you been doing with yourself lately?’ Max asked.

‘Grieving if you must know.’

‘Ah yes, poor Bill. That was a surprise, wasn’t it? I always thought that only the good died young. What was he? Fifty?’

‘Forty-nine. And you can say what you like about him. I know what I know.’

‘And we know what the evidence showed,’ Fletch said. ‘Not to mention the fact that he confessed.’

‘Yeah, when you buggers had beaten it out of him.’

‘It was all recorded, Percy,’ Max reminded him. ‘Anyway, that’s old news. I’m more interested in your current activities. I especially want to know when you were last in Kelton Bridge.’

‘I’ve told you—’ His expression changed. ‘Hey, that bird who got done in was found there.’

‘As bright as ever, Percy. What do you know about that?’

‘Only what I heard on the telly. Here, you’re not thinking I had anything to do with that, are you? Christ, I never even heard of her.’ His top lip was covered in sweat and he wiped it away with his arm. ‘You can’t fit that one on me. I know you bloody lot. You’d beat a confession out of any bugger you fancied.’

Max wandered to the window and peered through the filthy glass to the dimly lit car park below. His car was still there. It still had four wheels, too.

He turned round, and was about to ask Percy about Jill, when a fat ginger cat ambled into the room.

Percy picked it up and the animal purred like a vacuum cleaner.

‘Like animals, do you?’ Fletch asked, taking the words out of Max’s mouth.

‘Better than people.’

‘A friend of mine has three cats,’ Max said, scuffing the dingy carpet with his foot. ‘She did have four, but one was murdered.’

‘Murdered? A cat?’

‘Yup. It was hanged.’

‘What sort of sick bastard would do that?’

‘The same sort of sick bastard who’d rape young women, I suppose.’

Percy, the cat tight in his arms, stepped forward until he was inches from Max’s face.

‘It wasn’t rape. She was asking for it.’

‘Begging for your body, Percy? Then crying rape? Ending up in A&E? I don’t think so.’

‘Bitch!’

‘Do you remember Jill Kennedy?’ Max asked.

‘I remember her. Smells of pig, like you lot. She was on the telly the other night. Full of herself.’

Jill had been on a programme to promote the self-help books she wrote.

‘I didn’t know that,’ Max lied. ‘What was she doing on the telly?’

‘Saying how great she was. Saying everyone should buy her books.’

‘You watching book programmes, Percy? I wouldn’t have thought that was quite your thing.’

‘There was nowt else on.’

‘Have you seen her lately?’

‘Who? That Kennedy woman? No.’

Percy was still stroking the cat. It was a well-fed animal and more than content to lie in Percy’s arms.

‘Where were you at the weekend?’ Fletch asked him.

‘Clitheroe.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Camping. I have a tent and go there a lot, mostly weekends.’

‘At this time of year?’ Max scoffed.

‘Any time of year.’

‘What do you do with your cat?’

He looked at Max as if he were raving. ‘Take her with me, of course. What do you think I do with her?’

Max wasn’t a cat person. Dogs, yes. Cats, no. He couldn’t see the sense in them. All they did was bring dead things into the house. He very much doubted, however, that anyone daft enough to take a cat camping for the weekend would hang one as an act of revenge.

‘Any witnesses?’ he asked Percy.

‘Plenty. They all know me there. And they’ve got cameras on the gates. The bloody tents would go walkabout if they didn’t.’

‘Have you got the address for this campsite?’ Fletch asked.

‘I’ve got their leaflet.’ Still holding the cat, he went to the kitchen and came back with a leaflet giving prices and details of the facilities for the campsite.

‘We’ll get it checked,’ Fletch told him, adding a grim, ‘and if we find out you’ve been telling porkies, Jacobs, I’ll be back in person to remind you about that busted rib you gave me, OK?’

‘Yes, well …’

They left Percy and his cat, and made the long descent to the car park.

‘I don’t think he’s your man,’ Fletch said.

‘Me neither. Pity.’

So who the hell was hanging cats? And why?

‘You said a tenner,’ the young lad told him when they reached Max’s car.

‘I said a fiver or a belt round the ear. So, which will it be?’

The lad stuck his hand out and Max put a five-pound note in it.

‘You a copper?’ the lad asked.

‘I am. So watch it.’

‘Thought I could smell pig,’ he muttered.

‘And I think I can smell illegal substances,’ Max retorted. ‘Any ideas?’

‘Nope.’ The kid shuffled off.

‘What a place,’ Fletch muttered once they were in the car.

It was the sort of place that made Max shudder. He always experienced a sense of there but for the Grace of God. Birth was a lottery. You could either be born to decent, hard-working parents, or you could be born into a hell-hole like this. If it was the latter, your fate was sealed.

‘Even the mother-in-law should look appealing now,’ he said, and Fletch groaned.

‘I’ve been put on a diet, too,’ he complained, but then, brightening, added, ‘Still, the morning briefing’s nice and early. I’ll stop for a decent breakfast on my way in.’

Mention of the briefing brought with it a reminder of just how little they’d come up with. The identity of Lauren Cole’s killer remained a complete mystery.

The whereabouts of Yasmin Smith was another puzzle. Max hoped to God that, while her father was tramping the streets, searching every dark corner, she wasn’t lying in the snow with an axe in her head.