Slice (14 page)

EWAN McGUIGAN HAD
never been particularly good-looking and his earlier encounter with Jack Fulton had not rearranged his face for the better. The bruising he had suffered was now really starting to come out, with one side of his face so badly swollen that it resembled a huge abscess. There were also a number of deep cuts to the same cheek and he sported a shiner of a black eye. Gilham could not help wincing when he entered the interview room just behind his boss and met the smouldering stare of the dishevelled figure sitting beside his solicitor on the other side of the table. Somehow he did not think this interview was going to be an easy one and things certainly did not start well.

In fact, they barely had time to close the door behind them before the journalist was on his feet with a snarl, glaring at Fulton with his good eye and pointing at his own battered face with one bandaged hand.

‘I’m going to bloody well have you for this, Fulton,’ he choked. ‘Look at my face. And I reckon I’ve got at least one cracked rib.’

Gilham cut in quickly before his boss could reply. ‘Your prerogative, Mr McGuigan,’ he said, ‘though I gather from the police doctor who examined you that none of your injuries is serious.’

‘Not serious?’ McGuigan’s voice rose several octaves. ‘What’s that got to do with it? I was beaten up by your bloody guv’nor and he’s not going to get away with it—’

‘My client will be making an official complaint of assault against you, Superintendent,’ the balding representative of Dolland, Kirkby & Harbottle interjected hastily. He tugged firmly on McGuigan’s arm until he sat down again.

Gilham waited while Fulton parked himself in the chair facing McGuigan across the table, then dropped into the other one. ‘As I’ve just said, Mr Dolland,’ he replied, ‘that’s his prerogative. But his complaint will have to come later. Right now we’re here to interview him about three murders.’

Conscious of the mounting tension in the room, Gilham went straight into the pre-interview formalities, turning on the tape machine and finishing up with a rushed caution that drew a smirk from Dolland and the contemptuous retort from the journalist: ‘You must be having a laugh.’

Gilham’s eyes narrowed. ‘I assure you this is no laughing matter, Mr McGuigan,’ he said politely. ‘And to start with, perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling us what were you doing at Drew House this evening?’

McGuigan scowled. ‘Following Jack Fulton,’ he replied. ‘Been keeping tabs on the arsehole ever since Lyall was done in.’

Gilham’s eyes flicked briefly in the direction of his boss, but Fulton was saying nothing. He just sat there studying McGuigan through half-closed eyes; he was, as the DCI knew from past experience, watching, assessing and waiting. ‘And you expect us to believe that?’

‘Believe what you like.’

‘So how did you know the crypt in which you were arrested was there in the first place?’

‘I didn’t. As I said, I was following Fulton.’

‘Without him even noticing he had a tail?’

‘I kept well back, but lost him when he went into the church. Then I discovered that bloody great hole in the wall with the steps going down and thought I’d take a look.’

Fulton came to life suddenly. ‘Let’s cut the crap, McGuigan,’ he rasped. ‘You’re in deep shit and you know it.’

‘I’m speaking the truth.’

‘Yeah, yeah. So you just
happened
to stumble on the very place in which two murders were committed? That was a stroke of luck, wasn’t it? You’ve been pretty lucky like that all through this inquiry, haven’t you?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Well, according to your original claim, for some reason the killer specifically chose you to break the news to about the Lyall killing – actually furnishing you with all the details, including a nice photograph – and slipping the lot through your letterbox in the middle of the night.’

‘That’s exactly what happened.’

‘So why would he hit on you rather than one of the big boys in Fleet Street?’

‘How should I know? Maybe he wanted someone local.’

There was a cynical glint in Fulton’s eyes. ‘Oh, that would explain it then. So the killer pre-warned you about the murders of Lenny Baker and the Reverend Andrew Cotter then, did he?’

‘No, of course not.’

Fulton bent forward across the table towards him. ‘Then how did you know where their bodies were to be found so soon after they had been dumped? You turned up at both locations well in advance of anyone else. You even beat the police to the Reverend Cotter.’

There was more than a hint of perspiration on McGuigan’s forehead and Fulton waited for the telltale jerk of his Adam’s apple, which, as an experienced interviewer, he knew was a prime indicator of guilt. He didn’t have to wait long either and he smiled contemptuously when it happened, keen to press home the advantage he had created.

‘Truth is, Mr McGuigan, you knew all about these murders, didn’t you – where they were committed and where the bodies had been dumped – because you had committed them? The only thing that puzzles me is why?’

Before McGuigan could answer, Dolland held up one pale hand. ‘My client denies your insinuations absolutely,’ he snapped. ‘Now, are you going to charge him or not? If not, then you have no option but to release him.’

Fulton ignored him and piled on the pressure. ‘Well,
Mr
McGuigan, are you frightened to answer the question because you know you are guilty? You must admit, things are not looking too good for you at the moment, are they?’

The journalist studied him over a hastily grabbed glass of water. His expression was no longer belligerent, but had the look of a trapped animal.

‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Dolland breathed close to his ear. ‘He has to produce evidence.’

McGuigan glanced at him and then at Fulton, plainly in a gut-wrenching dilemma.

‘Think about it, McGuigan,’ Fulton persisted. ‘Three brutal murders and you have been in the know for each of them. Then you turn up at the principal murder scene – not just in the vicinity, mark you, but on the actual killing ground. I call that a bit too much of a coincidence and I think any jury will feel the same way.’

‘I listen to police radios,’ McGuigan blurted suddenly and Dolland relaxed with a smirk.

Gilham felt his heart lurch. Damn it, the swine had tossed the ball right back into Fulton’s lap, which meant it was put-up or shut-up time. So what did they do now? There was unlikely to be any forensic evidence to back up any charge against McGuigan and there were no witnesses to put the journalist anywhere near the victims prior to their deaths. It looked like they were stuffed, but he had reckoned without Fulton’s brass neck and his long experience as an interviewer, and the big man went straight for the wild card without even blinking.

‘There
were
no initial radio transmissions regarding the murders of Lenny Baker and the Reverend Cotter,’ he said, poker-faced and as definite as a player with a royal flush. ‘Both incidents were reported by telephone to Saddler Street nick and officers were dispatched direct from there to each location. You were on the scene of each crime before the responding units had time to radio a situation report.’

Gilham froze, knowing full well that Fulton was bluffing, but then he saw Dolland tense and, to his surprise, McGuigan promptly fell apart.

‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ he said, slumping in his chair with the weariness of someone who had been carrying a guilty secret for far too long. ‘I just reported what he gave me.’

Dolland looked horrified and even Gilham was stunned by his sudden unexpected admission.

It was Fulton who seized the initiative. ‘What he
gave
you?’ he said carefully, keen to ensure there were no ambiguities on the tape. ‘You’re saying you had some sort of ongoing dialogue with this psycho?’

The other shook his head. ‘Not dialogue, no. He – he telephoned me after each of the last two—’

‘Murders?’

McGuigan gave a resigned nod, seemingly unaware of his solicitor holding his head in his hands.

‘Each of the last two
murders
?’ Fulton persisted.

A noticeable grimace, followed by an irritable: ‘Yes, murders, damn you!’

‘To tell you the locations of the bodies?’

‘Yes!’

‘Then you made sure he got maximum publicity?’

McGuigan winced. ‘I reported the facts as disclosed; that’s my job.’

‘Very noble of you. And you got an exclusive each time, of course. Not a bad deal, eh?’

Outwitted and demoralized, the journalist cast him a sullen glance. ‘There
was
no deal.’

Fulton raised an eyebrow again, a glint of triumph in his eyes. ‘How would you describe it, then? You didn’t happen to alert the police to the telephone calls, did you?’

‘I had no idea who the killer was or that he would kill again after he had sliced Lenny Baker. Also, the calls were kept very short, the voice obviously disguised. So what was the point?’

‘The
point
, McGuigan,’ Fulton said tersely, ‘is that we could have put a tap on your phone; maybe nailed this psycho the next time he rang.’

The journalist’s expression registered his contempt. ‘And what good would that have done? When he called me about Cotter it was around nine o’clock in the morning. By then the good reverend would already have been dead.’

‘Yeah,’ Fulton agreed, ‘but it would at least have given us the opportunity of trying to trace the call and put a stop to any further killings – and there will be more, you can be sure of it.’

McGuigan hesitated, as if unsure as to whether he should say anything else or not. He glanced quickly at Dolland, but the solicitor gave the indifferent shrug of a man who felt that anything he said now was pretty academic anyway.

‘I already did that,’ the journalist said at last.

‘What?’

‘The – the call came from a mobile and though the number was withheld, I managed to get a trace on it through a contact I have in the phone company.’

‘And?’

‘The subscriber was Herbert Lyall.’

‘Lyall?’ Gilham exclaimed, unable to contain himself any longer.

‘Yes, which means the killer must have stolen the phone from him the night of his murder – and there’s more.’

Both policemen studied him warily, sensing from the sudden triumphant gleam in his eyes that they wouldn’t like what was coming. ‘Go on.’

‘There was some background noise when he last rang me.’

‘What sort of background noise?’ Fulton snapped.

McGuigan now leaned across the table. ‘A Tannoy message,’ he replied, ‘a Tannoy message asking the duty inspector to report to the control room.’ His face twisted into an ugly sneer. ‘Your psycho,
Mr
bloody Fulton, is not only one of your own, but is actually planning his hits from inside your own nick!’

FULTON WAS SURPRISED
to see the sleek blue Jaguar of the assistant chief constable operations in the police station car park when he turned up for work the following morning, especially as it was only just 8.30. Remembering Andy Stoller’s previous early appearance at Saddler Street and the bad news it had heralded, he couldn’t help feeling distinctly uneasy as he reversed into a convenient space. Something had to be up to get an assistant chief constable out of bed this early. He just hoped it had nothing to do with him or the investigation.

There seemed to be even more press than usual gathered outside the police station and they homed in on him like wasps targeting a fruit salad as he climbed the steps to the front doors. Something had wound them up and Fulton guessed it was the sight of McGuigan being wheeled into the nick the night before. Nothing like concern for your own, he mused, barging through them and ignoring the inevitable barrage of questions.

He spied Norman Skellet’s thin figure standing at the foot of the stairs as soon as he passed through the security door into the station and his stomach churned.

‘Superintendent!’ Skellet snapped, blocking Fulton’s path. ‘A word please.’

Apprehension settling on him with the force of gravity, Fulton followed the ACC along the corridor to a door labelled Interview Room 1. There were two of them seated at the bolted-down table inside – a wiry grey-haired man in his late fifties with pebble eyes and pallid sunken features, and a much younger colleague, blessed with a thick crop of oily black hair and a full beard.

‘This is Detective Chief Superintendent Harringay and Detective Superintendent Nesbitt from the South Thames force,’ Skellet announced, his face bleak. ‘They have been called in at the request of the deputy chief constable to interview you in connection with a serious criminal matter.’

‘A serious
what
?’ Fulton tried to conceal the telltale jerk of his Adam’s apple, but he could feel the knife twisting in his gut as he thought of Janet and the complaint of assault he had long been expecting.

Skellet ignored his question. ‘And after they have finished with you, you will report to me in the superintendent’s office upstairs, is that understood?’

Glancing past the ACC, he saw Andy Stoller standing in the doorway and tried to catch his eye, but Stoller chose to examine the floor instead. Before the big man could think of anything else to say, Skellet turned on his heel and left the room, pushing Stoller ahead of him as he closed the door behind them.

‘Sit down, Mr Fulton,’ Harringay said.

Fulton remained standing, his face now wearing a truculent expression.

‘I said
sit
!’ Harringay snapped. ‘Unless you wish to stand there for the next few hours.’

‘Next what?’ Fulton retorted. ‘Just what the hell is all this about? I have a bloody murder to investigate.’

Harringay rested his elbows on the table and studied him over long, steepled fingers. ‘So have I, Mr Fulton,’ he said quietly, then added with brutal frankness: ‘The murder of your estranged wife and her boyfriend!’

Fulton ignored his doorbell at first. Plagued by the press ever since returning home after hours of interrogation (there had even been one of the hyenas creeping round his back garden at lunchtime), he had eventually taken the telephone off the hook and closed the blinds on the large front window, determined to exclude the world from his misery and humiliation.

He still could not take in what was happening to him and he knew he would never forget his escorted trip to the mortuary to see Janet’s body. Both she and Doyle had apparently been beaten to death with a pickaxe handle – SOCO had found it in the undergrowth at the scene – and she wasn’t a pretty sight. He could still see her lying there with one side of her head caved in and her eyes starting from their sockets and staring at him through the swollen bloodied remains of her face like some ghastly visitant from a nightmare. There had been no expression of sympathy from Detective Superintendent Nesbitt, who had accompanied him, or the elderly mortuary attendant who had studied him with open hostility throughout the whole process. Why should there be? After all, he was a cold-blooded murderer who had battered his wife and her lover to death with a pickaxe handle – everyone knew that – and murderers weren’t entitled to sympathy, or anything else for that matter. He thought about his own career and wondered if
he
had come across like that to those he had interviewed on suspicion of serious crime. Maybe this was his punishment for prejudging others. If so, it was the cruellest punishment that could ever have been meted out.

‘Jack?’ a familiar voice shouted through the letterbox. ‘You in there?’

He stubbed out his cigarette and slouched reluctantly from the room to open up.

‘So you
are
in, then?’ Abbey Lee snapped, pushing past him into the hall as he slammed the door on the two reporters who had evidently been harassing her on the garden path. ‘Thought you could do with some company.’

There was no gratitude in his expression. ‘Got plenty of that out there, thank you,’ he retorted, waving an arm towards the lounge.

She went ahead of him and stood for a moment in the doorway. The whisky bottle on the coffee table was half-empty, the glass beside it half-full and the air laden with cigarette smoke.

‘That’s the answer then, is it?’ she commented with a grimace and nodded towards the bottle.

Fulton shrugged. ‘What else is there?’

She settled on the edge of the settee. ‘What about your self-respect?’

He stood in the doorway, scowling and looking uncomfortable. ‘If I’d wanted a preacher, I’d have sent for the bloody vicar by now,’ he said.

Her lips tightened. ‘You’re never easy to help, are you, Jack?’ she breathed.

‘I didn’t ask for help in the first place,’ he retorted, slumping back into his armchair and reaching for the whisky glass.

She hesitated, biting her lip. ‘Look, I’m really sorry about Janet. I heard all about it on the news. You must be devastated.’

He grimaced. ‘That’s the point,’ he replied, ‘I’m not.’

‘Not what?’

‘Not devastated, Ab –
not devastated
. Terrible, isn’t it? My wife has been brutally murdered and I should be the grieving husband, but I’m not. Oh, it was a terrible shock when I heard about it, I freely admit that – nearly passed out at the interview – but it was no more of a shock than if the victim had been someone else I knew personally. I pity her, yes, but I haven’t felt any gut-wrenching sense of sorrow or loss over her death.’

‘Hardly surprising after the way she treated you.’

He stared at her frankly. ‘I didn’t kill her, Ab, no matter how bad things might look, and I wouldn’t have wished such a terrible thing on Janet anyway.’

‘I know that, Jack, but someone else did do it and under the circumstances you are bound to be high on the list of suspects.’

He stood up again and took his glass to the window, lifting a corner of the blinds to peer out at the knot of reporters and photographers gathered by the gate. ‘I’ve been suspended, Ab. Can you believe that?’ he said. ‘Twenty-seven years exemplary service in the force and now I’m on suspension; arrested, bailed – me,
bailed
– and required to report to the nick again in one month, like some bloody villain, while my own DCI is handed my job on a plate as SIO.’

She nodded. ‘I know. The whole town is buzzing with the news.’

He stared at her, the shock still etched into his face. ‘Do you know, I even had to supply a DNA sample and allow them to search my bungalow for bloodstained clothing. Half my neighbours must have had a grandstand view of the troops arriving. Have you any idea how humiliating that was?’

‘I can imagine.’

‘No you can’t – not even nearly.’

‘OK, so I can’t. Point is what are you going to do now?’

He turned back into the room and poured himself another whisky. ‘What do you
think
I should do?’

‘Well, you are a bit limited on options. Best to keep your head down and let things sort themselves out.’

‘So just give up, right?’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but you’d be a fool to risk attracting more flak.’

‘Would I now?’ His eyes were hard. ‘Well, you just listen to me, Abbey Lee. Someone set me up, I’m convinced of it, and there’s no way I’m going to be played for a sap.’

‘I don’t follow you.’

He set the whisky glass down on the coffee table, untouched, and lit another cigarette. ‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since I came home,’ he said, starting to pace the room like a caged animal. ‘Doesn’t it strike you as a bit odd that my wife and her boyfriend should be battered to death at a time when I am leading a serial murder investigation?’

‘It’s just a coincidence.’

‘I don’t believe in coincidences.’

‘They happen.’

‘So does shit.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘I think someone – almost certainly the so-called Slicer – wanted me off the current murder enquiry pdq, in case I got lucky, and framing me was one way of getting the job done.’

‘You’ve been reading too many thrillers.’

‘Maybe, but it all fits and the thing is, whoever’s behind it must be someone in the know – someone reasonably close to me who is
au fait
with the progress of my inquiry and can keep tabs on my movements without arousing suspicion. He must have followed me to Janet’s love nest the night she died, otherwise how else would he have known where she had gone to ground?’

She started. ‘Janet’s love nest? Are you saying you confronted her at her boyfriend’s place?’

He stopped pacing and faced her with a grimace. ‘I wanted to persuade her to come home, but we had a bit of a fight and—’

‘A fight? That was a damned stupid thing to do. You’ve laid yourself wide open.’

His expression was suddenly ironic. ‘Tell me about it, but, as they say, hindsight is not an exact science.’

‘And you think the killer followed you to the address?’

‘It’s the only explanation I can think of.’

‘And he’s one of your own?’

‘Well, we’ve been sure for some time now that the Slicer is someone at the local nick and we did have a likely suspect – a bobby called Derringer who was AWOL – but he has turned up in Middle Moor hospital and looks like being off the hook.’

‘But I thought you had just arrested someone else in connection with your inquiry? According to the news on the radio, a local journalist is currently in custody.’

He gave an irritable shake of his head. ‘I don’t think for one moment that he’s our man, though it is possible he is part of some sort of conspiracy. I’m not going to get the opportunity of following that up now, anyway.’

‘So you’re stuck.’

His eyes gleamed. ‘Not quite. Master Derringer has indicated that he may know who our killer is and wants to cut a deal in exchange for the information.’

‘So?’

‘I think I might toddle along to see him.’ He gave a fierce grin. ‘Use my subtle counselling skills to get the info out of him.’

‘What?’ She half-rose on the settee. ‘Are you mad? The force will hang you out to dry.’

He took a deep breath and nodded. ‘Maybe, but I’ve no intention of just sitting here while the bastards finish stitching me up.’

‘Don’t you think you should trust your own team to get that sort of information out of Derringer?’

He emitted a harsh laugh. ‘And which member of my own team should I trust to do that, Ab? I’ve already said someone in the know has to be our killer and it could just as easily be someone on the team itself.’

‘Surely not Phil Gilham or Ben Morrison?’

‘I wouldn’t rule anyone out at this stage – especially after what I discovered from a few routine enquiries this morning.’

‘This morning? Then you’ve been poking your nose into things already, have you?’

‘Let’s just say I’ve been checking on someone I’ve had particular doubts about – and it turns out he has been telling me a few porky pies.’

‘And who would that be?’

He shook his head. ‘Never you mind.’

She shrugged. ‘Suit yourself, but whatever suspicions you might have about anyone, I still think you’re crazy going to see this PC Derringer when you should be keeping a low profile. And in any event, how do you propose getting away from here unnoticed? Wherever you go, you’ll have a posse of reporters chasing after you.’

He studied her for a moment. ‘That’s where you come in, Ab.’

She jumped to her feet, shaking her head repeatedly. ‘Oh no you don’t. No way. I’m not getting involved in your suicidal scheme.’

He held up one placatory hand. ‘Look, all I’m asking you to do is drop me at the hospital gates after dark this evening. There’s a lane behind my garden. If you were to be there this evening at say,’ – he glanced at his watch – ‘eight-thirty time, I could hop over my garden wall and slip in the back of your motor. No one will bother to follow you even if they do see the car. What press are still around outside will think I’m still indoors.’

‘Absolutely not, Jack – and that’s final!’

He nodded and treated her to the first genuine smile he had been able to manage for many hours. ‘Thanks, Ab, I knew I could count on you. Fancy a cup of tea and a sandwich before you pop home to change?’