Slice (13 page)

‘You mean he’s gone AWOL?’

‘Don’t ask me.’

‘So what the hell do we do about Derringer? Boss’ll want to see him first, you know that.’

Morrison shrugged. ‘Your call, not mine.’

Gilham wrestled with the implications of this for a few moments. ‘OK, tell control to keep at it. Then meet me in the car park. We’ll just have to go and see Derringer ourselves.’

‘Guv’nor won’t like it.’

‘Guv’nor’s not here, is he?’

Morrison chewed furiously for a second. ‘Your funeral,’ he said and grinned. ‘Glad I’m only a DI.’

The Marquis de Sade would have felt entirely at home in the crypt under Drew House’s small church. In the dank decaying atmosphere Fulton could practically smell the pain and misery of the pitiful souls who must have suffered here at the hands of their perverted tormentors.

He saw the wire cage first: a sinister-looking device shaped like the torso and legs of a man, suspended from steel chains bolted to the roof. He didn’t need a history degree to know what it would have been used for and he jumped when it stirred slightly in the sudden rush of air that accompanied him into the room, as if the ghost of the last emaciated wretch who had been clasped in its cruel embrace was still present and mischievously trying to set the thing swinging.

Moving cautiously round the room, his torch probing the Stygian darkness, he found other devices tucked away in alcoves and deep corners – among them, an oblong mediaeval style rack complete with rollers, chains and winding handle, an overturned brazier which had been burned right through at the bottom and a long wooden table fitted with a series of leather straps and set with rows of retractable iron spikes operated by a small wheel at one end.

Exactly when the instruments of torture had replaced the tombs of the deceased was a matter of conjecture – if there had ever been any tombs in the crypt in the first place. Perhaps the Havers-Price family had installed the things themselves to satisfy some penchant for depraved thrills. And there again, perhaps not. He had no idea precisely how old the church was. The Internet write-up he had scanned in the LIO’s office had indicated that it pre-dated Drew House by several hundred years and though it was unlikely from the apparent condition of the devices that they had been
in situ
that long, they could still have been put here before the mansion was built.

Whoever
was
responsible, however, they had obviously not felt it necessary to destroy the evidence when they tired of their depraved sport; no doubt because they had not thought anyone would ever break through the bricked-up archway and discover what they had abandoned anyway. As a result, everything had just been left to rust or rot away beneath the floor of the church, pulleys and chains silent, screws and bolts seized; a chilling legacy buried in the haunted blackness of a real-life chamber of horrors.

He would have been content to leave things as they were, too; prepared to accept that what he had stumbled upon was nothing more than old history; an assortment of hideous relics of past sadism, which had no relevance to the present day or the current murder investigation. But then the beam of his torch penetrated further into the vault and he was confronted by cold reality.

He saw the spotlights first, a tight cluster rigged on a metal tower behind a high-backed chair – unlit, but still glittering in the torchlight. The scene reminded him of a programme he had once seen on television, where the contestant being questioned sat in a pool of light in an otherwise blacked-out room, but here, instead of a camera, there was a large mirror suspended from the ceiling on two chains just in front of the chair – a mirror in which, he knew instinctively, the hapless Herbert Lyall and Andrew Cotter had witnessed their own executions.

For several minutes he simply stood there, staring fixedly at what had to be the most significant and macabre discovery of his career, noting the thick black cables running from the tower to a small generator in the corner and detecting for the first time the strong odour of diesel, which provided a key indication of just how much planning must have gone into the Slicer’s murderous operation.

Closer inspection of the chair reinforced this fact, for like the spotlights and generator, it belonged very much to the twenty-first century and as such, must have been installed only recently. It appeared to be made of black leather and was of the swivel type with an elongated section extending from the seat to the floor to support the legs. It looked very much like one of the chairs used in his local barber’s hairdressing salon, but there the similarity ended. This particular chair had a unique piece of equipment attached to its modified headrest, consisting of a sinister-looking leather harness, obviously designed to fit a human head, with a wide band at the top and adjustable straps at the side. A pair of ratchet handcuffs dangled from each of the padded arms and he noted the tattered remains of light-coloured plastic tape still attached to the foot of the elongated section, which fluttered slightly in the draught from the open door.

Now he knew how the marks on Lyall’s limbs had been made, and if any further confirmation were needed that he had stumbled on the butcher’s lair, he got it when he turned away from the chair and his right shoe peeled off a soft sticky deposit in which he had been inadvertently standing.

Retching and coughing as a stream of hot acid spurted up into his gullet, he fumbled for his mobile phone, but even as he dialled the police control room number, he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps ringing eerily on naked stone in the darkness above his head, footsteps that grew ever closer as they clumped their way down the flight of steps that he had just descended.

DERRINGER WAS SITTING
up in bed in the tiny side room off the top-floor corridor. He was propped up on pillows and looked as if he had been used as a punchbag by someone who liked to play rough. The uniformed constable sitting beside his bed closed his reading book with a bang and jumped to his feet as Gilham and Morrison appeared in the open doorway.

‘Go and get yourself a coffee,’ Gilham told him, flashing his warrant card, then dropping into the vacated chair. Morrison propped himself on the windowsill and probed a nostril with one podgy finger.

‘What, no grapes?’ Derringer wisecracked through his swollen lips, but winced as he attempted a grin.

‘You can save the funnies for the crown court,’ Gilham said. ‘But somehow I don’t think they’ll laugh.’

‘So this isn’t a welfare visit then?’ Derringer sneered. ‘Don’t know what the force is coming to. No interest in their staff any more.’

‘You little turd,’ Morrison growled, but turned away to examine his other nostril when Gilham threw him a warning glance.

‘So who did this to you?’ Gilham continued. ‘One of Vansetti’s boys?’

‘Shouldn’t you be cautioning me or something?’

‘You wanted welfare? I’m giving you welfare. OK?’

Derringer eased his neck into a more comfortable position. ‘Maybe he thinks I was too successful on one of his tables and wants some of his dosh back.’

‘Is Vansetti why you were doing a runner?’

Derringer gave a disparaging snort, then immediately raised a hand to his chest with a sharp cry of pain. ‘Well, you can’t seriously believe I had anything to do with those murders, can you?’ he said through gritted teeth.

Gilham shrugged. ‘Jury’s out on that. But you’re in deep poo anyway.’

‘What, because I decided to quit the job without a formal resignation?’

‘No, because part of a driving licence with Herbert Lyall’s name on it was found in your patrol car, plus what looks suspiciously like bloodstains.’

For a few seconds Derringer just stared at him. ‘But that’s ridiculous.’

Gilham hesitated, thinking of PACE
1
and the rules of interview he was legally obliged to follow. ‘John Derringer,’ he began. ‘I have reason to believe that—’

‘Oh
p-lease
,’ Derringer cut in.

Gilham carried on regardless, adding: ‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if—’

‘I don’t need that crap!’ Derringer forced himself up off the pillows, his teeth gritted even more tightly against the pain. ‘And anyway, for your information, I wasn’t even driving my bloody car that night.’

Gilham foundered in the middle of the caution and Morrison started to ease himself off the windowsill. ‘You what?’

Derringer slumped back in the bed, his eyes half-closed, his breathing harsh and irregular. ‘Listen, when I went to get my keys after briefing, they were missing. You know the nick. All the vehicle keys are left hanging up on a board in the briefing room. Everyone has access to them. Spares are kept in the sergeants’ office.’

‘I’ll need to check that out.’

‘Surprised a super sleuth like you hasn’t done it already. And while you’re doing your checking, speak to Sergeant Andy Dunn. He couldn’t find the spares either when I went to see him.’

‘So why is it he hasn’t reported them missing?’

‘Why don’t you ask him? Maybe it’s because they turned up later, I don’t know.’

‘So you’re saying you took another vehicle?’

‘You really are catching on, aren’t you? Fact is, someone had already pinched my usual area car – I checked the car park to make sure – so I took one of the two spares we’ve got.’

‘Yet no one happened to notice your vehicle being driven by someone else? Bit odd that, isn’t it?’

‘Not when there are cars in and out of the car park all day and night and the car park itself is on the other side of the road to the nick. Who’s to see? And anyway, who’s going to bother checking the registration number of another police vehicle to verify that the right copper is behind the wheel of the right area car? A patrol car is a patrol car, for flip’s sake.’

‘So why would someone else take your car in particular?’

‘Maybe because it was already fuelled up.’ Derringer sighed. ‘Look, we’re supposed to fill up at the end of every tour so that the cars are ready for instant deployment by the following shift. Some lazy bastards don’t bother and it’s common practice to pinch someone else’s motor if yours is nearly out of gas.’

Gilham sat back in his chair, clearly deflated.

Derringer’s eyes gleamed. ‘Got it wrong, Detective Chief Inspector, haven’t you?’ he sneered. ‘Question is, if not me, then who, eh? Could be anyone at the nick, couldn’t it? Even someone on your own team. Now that’s a thought, isn’t it?’

‘Any copper other than you, you mean?’ Morrison growled. ‘That’s convenient.’

Derringer turned his head towards him a fraction. ‘Not necessarily another copper either, Mr Morrison. Could be anyone with regular access to the nick: social worker, civvy control-room operator, community support officer, maybe even an
ex
-bobby who knows just where everything is and how Saddler Street ticks.’

‘Oh come on,’ Gilham snorted. ‘Dream up another fantasy, will you? You won’t get yourself off the hook with crap like that.’

Derringer seemed unperturbed by his reaction. ‘Think what you like, Chief Inspector,’ he said, ‘but I know what I know.’

Gilham’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward slightly. ‘And exactly what
do
you know?’

‘That depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On what sort of an arrangement we can come to.’

Gilham shot to his feet, his face pale and angry. ‘You’re in no position to bargain,’ he said. ‘We’ve got enough on you to go to the CPS now.’

The mocking gleam returned to Derringer’s eyes. ‘Then be my guest,’ he replied, ‘but what happens when the Slicer decides to total someone else after you’ve charged me, eh? Could be a tad embarrassing for the force, don’t you think?’

Gilham’s expression was suddenly bleak. ‘Could be a tad worse for you,’ he said, ‘if you are the innocent you pretend to be and the killer thinks you could finger him!’

Then he turned for the door, brushing past Derringer’s uniformed minder as he returned to claim his chair, leaving Derringer staring uneasily into the dimly lit passage outside his room.

The adrenaline was surging through Fulton’s veins like a miniature Severn Bore as he quickly masked his torch with his hand and edged his way diagonally across the stone-flagged floor towards the half-open door. The approaching footsteps were getting much louder now and he only just managed to take up a position on the hinged side of the door when he heard them come to a halt outside.

For a second there was silence, broken only by his thudding heart and someone else’s heavy breathing. Then a hand grasped the handle and the door swung fully inwards, admitting a powerful shaft of light, which exploded in the mirror hanging from the ceiling. Apparently satisfied that the room was empty, a dark, indistinct shape – blacker than the darkness around it, but touched by the flashlight it was carrying – stepped through the doorway and stood there for a second, lowering the beam to illuminate the high-backed chair. It was then that Fulton made his move, drawing on every ounce of energy he could muster and launching himself at the intruder with annihilating force.

The other didn’t stand a chance, but slammed into the unyielding floor with a bone-crunching finality, the big man pinning him down like a rock slab from an avalanche. Heedless of the groans from beneath him, Fulton grabbed his prisoner by the hair and, wrenching the man’s head sideways, he directed the beam of his torch into his bloodied face. ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he rasped. ‘Ewan flaming McGuigan!’

‘Don’t look much like Sweeney Todd, does he, guv?’ Ben Morrison commented with a grin as he watched a shocked and battered Ewan McGuigan being escorted from the church crypt by two burly policemen.

Fulton tore his gaze away from the grisly crime scene, now brilliantly illuminated by the cluster of spotlights behind the leather chair as the generator the DI had managed to get going chugged away in the background. ‘What did you say?’ he rapped.

Morrison’s grin faded, sensing from his boss’s expression that he had said the wrong thing yet again. ‘Er – Sweeney Todd, guv,’ he replied and threw an uneasy glance at Phil Gilham. ‘Demon barber of Fleet Street. Slit customer’s throats with a razor while they was sitting havin’ a shave and …’

His voice trailed away, for it was plain that Fulton was no longer listening to him, but had retreated within himself, his face contorted in thought.

‘What is it, Jack?’ Gilham queried, a slight edge to his voice.

Fulton’s eyes refocused and he shook his head with obvious frustration. ‘Buggered if I know!’ he said heavily. ‘As I told you before, something’s been bothering me ever since Lenny Baker was sliced.’ He stabbed his forehead none too gently with one stout finger. ‘But it’s buried in here somewhere and I can’t get it out.’

‘So why would Sweeney Todd be significant?’

The big man smiled grimly. ‘Maybe McGuigan will be able to answer that.’

‘You think he’s our man?’

‘Do you?’

‘Well, he has to be a pretty hot suspect after turning up here this afternoon, doesn’t he?’

‘He could have just followed me to Drew House. After all, he’s done that sort of thing before.’

Gilham studied him suspiciously. ‘You’re beginning to sound like his brief, Jack.’

‘Nothing of the sort. I just don’t see him as a psycho.’ Fulton frowned. ‘Anyway, why this sudden change of heart? I thought you were hung up on Derringer being the culprit.’

‘Not any more.’

‘Oh?’

Gilham took a deep breath. ‘Situation’s changed, Jack. Derringer is in Middle Moor hospital and looks like being off the hook. Ben and I interviewed him an hour ago.’

‘You did
what
?’

Gilham threw Morrison a quick glance and received a frozen ‘I’m not here any more’ stare in return. ‘You were not contactable – again – so what was I supposed to do?’

The anger in Fulton’s expression began to fade and he gave a grudging nod. ‘At least we have him at last,’ he muttered. ‘And what crap did he come out with this time?’

Gilham gave him a précis of the interview and he digested the information for a few moments. ‘So he thinks he knows who our man is, does he?’

‘That’s what he intimated, yes, but he wants to cut a deal before he’ll say anything.’

‘And you think he’s legit?’

‘No way of knowing, but he did suggest that the killer may not necessarily be someone at the nick.’

Fulton smiled without humour. ‘Could be a journalist, you mean?’ he said pointedly.

‘It
is
possible.’

Fulton shook his head firmly. ‘I don’t buy that. Only a copper could have borrowed the car in which Lyall’s body was carried. There’s no way an outsider could have got into the nick, snaffled the keys and driven off without being challenged by someone.’

‘I tend to agree with you there, but that doesn’t mean our rogue cop was working alone.’

‘Two psychos, you mean? Bit far-fetched.’

‘Maybe one wasn’t a psycho, just someone who saw an opportunity for a leg-up in his journalistic career?’

‘Oh come on, Phil!’

Gilham ushered Fulton to one side as footsteps on the stairs outside heralded the arrival of the SOCO team. ‘Just think about it. How does McGuigan always manage to be in the right place at the right time? He broke the first story, claiming he was fed the information through his letterbox, and he’s been on the scene of all three murders within minutes of our own troops. Then he just happens to turn up here.’

‘OK, but that doesn’t make him our killer.’

‘Well, he’s certainly got some explaining to do.’

There was a vengeful glint in Fulton’s narrowed eyes. ‘That he has and you know what? This is one interview I’m really going to enjoy.’