Slice (8 page)

Fulton grimaced. ‘Bully for him,’ he commented. He went to the car and bent his head to peer in through the side window. The dead man had fallen sideways and now lay across both front seats, his face turned towards them to expose the grinning gash in his throat, which appeared to have almost decapitated him. Much of the front interior of the car, including virtually the entire windscreen, was plastered in blood, as if someone had sprayed it with a high pressure paint gun, and some of the thick sticky juices had already begun to solidify.

‘It’s Lenny Baker,’ Gilham breathed. ‘My informant.’

Fulton raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, he won’t be passing on any more grubby gossip, that’s for sure,’ he said. ‘No doubt that’s why he was done.’

Gilham straightened up and ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration. ‘Damn it!’ he exclaimed. ‘Lenny said he heard something, but I just put it down to his usual dramatics.’

Fulton stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’ he said sharply.

‘He asked if I’d heard a noise and if I’d been followed. Then this cat emerged from the place over there and I thought …’ His eyes widened. ‘Gordon Bennett, Jack, the swine that did this must have followed me here. He coolly waited until I left before …’ He broke off again and gestured towards the car in resignation.

Fulton walked away from him in the direction of the building he had indicated and peered in through the doorway. Even in the diminishing light, he could see the grass and weeds poking through the broken concrete floor. The place smelled like a urinal and he made a grimace as Gilham joined him.

‘We’ll get SOCO to give the place the once over,’ he said. ‘Might find a fibre or two, you never know.’

Prentice coughed discreetly from behind them. ‘Mr Hayes was out walking his dog when he came across the car, guv,’ he explained. ‘Dog ran off and—’

‘Anyone else in the vicinity?’ Fulton interjected, turning to eye the DS quizzically. ‘Or maybe another vehicle driving away?’

Prentice shook his head with the weary patience of the experienced professional being taught to suck eggs. ‘Just the car and the dead man. He rang us on his mobile.’

Fulton nodded. ‘Grateful to him for his help. Get his details and take a statement. We can always speak to him later. Pathologist and SOCO en route?’

‘All in hand, guv.’

‘Good.’ Fulton cast a roving glance around him. ‘Hopefully they’ll turn up before the press get wind of what’s happened.’

Prentice shook his head. ‘Already been, guv.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah – just one of them though. Some smarmy creep calling himself Ewan McGuigan. Said he knew you.’

Fulton’s jaw dropped. ‘McGuigan? How the hell did that bastard get on to this one so fast? You didn’t let him anywhere near the car?’

‘Not a chance.’ The DS gave a rare smile. ‘He didn’t get much opportunity anyway.’ He nodded towards the dog van. ‘Jimmy Talbot was exercising Satan and the Alsatian took a bit of a dislike to your man. Tell you, I’ve never seen anyone in such a hurry to get back to his car.’

Fulton’s eyes gleamed. ‘Nice one. Pity the bloody dog didn’t sink his teeth into his arse. Anyway, I’ll get some extra units up here to help you secure the scene.’ He inclined his head towards his number two. ‘DCI Gilham will remain here too until they arrive.’

Gilham rewarded his boss with a sour grimace, but said nothing until he was seeing him to his car. ‘Thanks for that, Jack,’ he said.

Fulton smiled again. ‘My pleasure, Phil,’ he replied. ‘But don’t let the damp spoil that tan of yours, will you?’

Gilham didn’t acknowledge the jibe and there was a frown on his face as he opened the driver’s door for him. ‘Who the hell are we dealing with, Jack? Surely Derringer wouldn’t have…?’

There was the double click of a lighter and cigarette smoke trailed in the still air. ‘Who can say what anyone would do under the right amount of pressure?’ Fulton replied. ‘And we don’t know whether the same person did both jobs anyway – although, apart from the fact that Lenny seems to have hung on to his balls, the two MOs are very similar.’

‘Both had their throats cut, certainly.’

‘More than that. Didn’t you notice the rear view mirror?’

‘The mirror?’

‘Yes, it was twisted at an unnatural angle.’

Gilham thought about that for a second. ‘Could have been knocked when Lenny fell across the seats,’ he suggested.

‘Unlikely, the way he was lying, and it wouldn’t have ended up at that sort of angle anyway. Don’t forget what Abbey Lee said about Lyall.’

‘So are you saying Lenny was forced to watch his own throat being cut, just like our late judge?’

‘Something like that. It’s possible that the killer was in the back seat, waiting for your man, and that he forced his head back against the headrest with one hand while he did the job with the other. He would have already worked out the best position for the mirror and no doubt adjusted it just before Lenny climbed behind the wheel.’

Gilham shivered. ‘A nice beauty.’

Fulton climbed into his car. ‘I can think of a better description. And one thing is very clear: whoever he is, he seems to be keeping very close tabs on us.’

Gilham glanced quickly into the surrounding woodland as his boss drove away and shivered again, feeling the mist that was rising through the gathering dusk settle on his shoulders like a clammy dead hand.

FULTON MADE A
point of dropping into the LIO’s office when he returned to Saddler Street police station. George Oates was already packing up for the day, one hand on his computer mouse as he bent over his desk to shut down the demanding beast that dominated his working life. He winced when Fulton’s shed-like bulk darkened his doorway.

‘Thanks a lot, George,’ the big man drawled, studying him with open hostility. ‘Dee Honeywell and I had a real heart to heart over my vehicle check.’

Oates straightened and held up both hands in a defensive gesture. ‘What could I do, guv?’ he pleaded. ‘She
is
my boss and she had already sussed that you were up to something. I had to tell her in the end just to get her off my back.’

Fulton ignored his obvious preparations for the ‘off’ and dropped into the chair he had occupied on his previous visit. ‘Well, you can make amends by doing me another little favour,’ he growled.

Oates raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Guv, look—’

‘And this time it’s official.’

Oates sat down heavily in his swivel-chair. ‘But I was about to go home.’

Fulton snorted. ‘What, at this hour? Wish I had your job.’

‘You wouldn’t. I’ve been at an LIO conference all afternoon. Likely to put you off criminal intelligence for life.’

Fulton leaned forward. ‘What do you know about a lowlife called Lenny Baker?’

Oates raised an eyebrow. ‘The guy who’s just had his throat cut?’

‘How did you know about that?’

‘It’s my job to know what’s going on and there are such things in police stations as personal radios.’

Fulton ignored the sarcasm. ‘So, what about Baker then?’

Oates shrugged. ‘Local tea leaf. Likes – liked – to think of himself as a supergrass. Came up with some useful snippets from time to time though. Maybe your serial killer thought he’d seen too much and decided surgery was necessary.’

Fulton pursed his lips for a moment. ‘We don’t know he
is
a serial killer,’ he reminded him, ‘or that he stiffed both Lenny as well as the judge.’

‘OK, but from what I hear, the MOs are pretty similar anyway.’

‘Not quite. There doesn’t appear to have been any other form of mutilation this time.’

‘Both victims had their throats slit in the good old Sweeney Todd tradition though, didn’t they?’

‘Maybe, but two hits don’t necessarily make a serial killer.’

‘Let’s hope you’re right.’

Obviously tiring of the discussion, Oates started to get up in his chair, only to sit down again when Fulton continued. ‘Where did Baker live?’

‘He had a bedsit, I believe, over on Caledonian Row by the canal – number 22.’

Fulton produced a cigarette and lit up. ‘Then we shall have to give it a spin, won’t we? Might be something there that will lead us to our killer.’

‘You’ve discounted John Derringer, then?’

‘Hardly, but he seems to have disappeared into thin air and anyway, I like to keep my options open.’ Fulton studied him keenly. ‘Know Derringer well, do you?’

‘Not particularly. He keeps very much to himself. Good thief-taker, but not much of a team man.’

‘What else do you know about him?’

Oates hesitated. ‘Look, guv, I’m going out tonight. Can we continue this conversation tomorrow?’

Fulton’s eyes narrowed. ‘My gut tells me you know quite a lot about PC Derringer, but you don’t want to say.’

‘Well, he
is
a colleague.’

‘He’s also a key suspect in a murder investigation – maybe two murder investigations.’

Oates wriggled in his seat for a moment, plainly torn by indecision. In the end, however, he had no choice but to capitulate. ‘OK, so he liked a little flutter.’

‘Just a flutter?’

‘Well, the word is he was in over his head with one of the local villains.’

‘Mickey Vansetti?’

Oates nodded, looking down at his feet. ‘John likes the good life, anyone will tell you that – designer suits, fast cars and expensive birds. Bit of a problem on a bobby’s pay.’

‘Do you think that’s why he went missing – Vansetti came after him?’

‘Could be.’

‘Could be –
but
, eh?’

Oates made a grimace. ‘He had a bit of an axe to grind with Lyall. Said he was bent.’

‘Oh?’ Fulton was very interested now. ‘And why would he think that? From what I hear, Herbert Lyall was an absolute pillar of the community.’

Oates gave a disparaging snort. ‘They’re often the worst kind.’

‘Maybe that’s true, but why would a simple plod like Derringer have a thing about a crown court judge? Despite his extravagant lifestyle, I doubt that he and Lyall moved in the same circles.’

‘They didn’t have to. Derringer’s twenty-year-old sister, Mary, was killed in a nasty road accident at Claverslea a few months back and—’

Fulton snapped his fingers, his eyes gleaming. ‘Remember it! The car was driven by Lyall.’

Oates nodded. ‘He always maintained that the girl stepped out in front of him and the hospital autopsy did later reveal she had knocked back a fair few glasses of claret before the accident.’

‘And Lyall got off with it.’

‘Totally exonerated. Thing was, a witness said that his car was being driven a bit erratically immediately prior to the accident, yet he was never breathalysed.’

‘Fix?’

‘Derringer thought so, especially as Lyall was a mate of both the Lord Lieutenant and the Lord Chief Justice. Derringer was obsessed with conspiracy theories and said Lyall needed to be punished.’

‘Enough of a reason to kill him?’

‘I can’t answer that.’

‘So how do you know all this?’

Oates sighed. ‘John used to drop by my office for a chat every so often. We’re both loners, so I suppose he felt he could trust me.’

Fulton stood up. ‘Well, he obviously couldn’t if you’re telling me all this now.’

Oates glared at him. ‘That’s not fair, guv’nor,’ he snapped.

Fulton paused briefly with his hand on the door frame. ‘Being fair is not something I’ve ever aspired to, George,’ he said, his face suddenly grim. ‘Just being right suits me.’

The special thanksgiving service had finished ten minutes early; a real rollercoaster ride of short hymns, short readings and an even shorter sermon that left the congregation feeling disgruntled and cheated. After all, what was the point of sacrificing the night’s soap episode on television and raiding the wardrobe for the suit or dress that would impress the most, only to find an unsmiling twitchy vicar who could hardly wait to say the magic words ‘Go in Peace’ and get rid of everybody?

Not surprisingly, the handshakes of the Reverend Andrew Cotter’s flock were less than enthusiastic as they filed past him through the north door of the little country church and hurried to their parked cars, muttering and shaking their heads in righteous indignation. But Cotter was hardly aware of their dissatisfaction. He had a much more important problem on his mind, something that threatened to destroy his career, his marriage – his whole life. And that problem had had the audacity to demand a meeting with him in the church itself, straight after the service.

As he closed the door after the choir and stewards had finally left, he tried for the millionth time since the sealed letter had been placed on the sacristy desk to work out who his tormentor might be, but yet again he failed miserably. He had only been at St Peter’s for three years and the skeletons in his cupboard were much too old for any of his present flock to know about. No, the person who had typed that note must be someone who had known him in the old days, someone with a grudge – and possibly a desire for money as well as revenge.

Turning back into the church, he shivered. The lights had been dimmed by the departing verger, and without its worshippers the building seemed suddenly cold and sinister, the twin rows of ornate stone columns that marched so resolutely through the rows of vacant pews, reaching up into the heavy blackness of the vaulted roof as if into infinity, and the brass eagle supporting the pulpit lectern gleaming lifelike and malevolent in the dimly lit gloom.

He crossed himself automatically as he turned down the nave towards the chancel, genuflecting in front of the simple brass cross on the altar before making for the north-east corner. The curtains across the choir vestry stirred on his approach, as if under a draught, and he paused again with a frown, peering over his shoulder at the north door. It appeared to be securely shut and he shook his head a couple of times in puzzlement, wondering where the draught could have come from. Then he shrugged, mentally reproaching himself for his stupidity. For heaven’s sake, man, he thought, the church is 700 years old. You can hardly expect it to be vacuum sealed.

The low door to the sacristy at the far end of the choir vestry was ajar, the bunch of keys still dangling from the lock where he had left them earlier, and he ducked his head as he went through. The lamp burned brightly on his desk, casting fantasy shadows up the bare stonework, but not all were illusions and he froze when one peeled itself off the wall behind the desk and came towards him. ‘Good evening, Father,’ the figure said quietly. ‘That was a nice short service.’

Cotter’s mouth tightened and the worms immediately started crawling around his insides. ‘I am not a
father
,’ he snapped, trying to take command of the situation, but finding himself let down by the nervous quaver in his tone. ‘This is an Anglican church.’

His visitor chuckled. ‘Well, whatever, Andrew,’ he replied, continuing to advance slowly towards him. ‘Let’s not split hairs, shall we?’

Cotter clenched both fists by his sides. ‘What do you want?’ he whispered. ‘Is it money you’re after?’

The other laughed harshly. ‘Money, Andrew?’ he echoed. ‘Money? Oh, I think you’ll need a lot more than mere money to clear
your
debt.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Now, now, Andrew, no more playing games, eh? You did enough of that in the old days, remember?’

Cotter shook his head quickly as he backed away from his sinister visitor. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’

Feeling the top of the low arched doorway touching the back of his head, he suddenly ducked under it and out into the choir vestry, grasping the iron ring in the door and pulling it shut behind him. Then, after turning the key in the lock, he scurried through the curtains of the choir vestry in a panic, his cassock flapping around him as he ran down the aisle towards the porch doors.

Virtual silence accompanied his flight, a silence broken only by the ringing thud of his shoes on the flagstones, and for a moment he was surprised that there was no sound of angry banging from the sacristy he had just left as his visitor tried to force the door open. Then, with an icy twist in his gut, he remembered the external door, which gave access to the church from the churchyard itself; he realized that his ‘prisoner’ must already be out and was no doubt pacing him along the outer wall, ready to confront him when he burst through.

Changing direction at the last minute, he stumbled through the pews to the nave and headed for the west door, only to find it locked. Fumbling for the keys in his cassock pocket, he suddenly remembered they were still in the door of the sacristy. He was trapped. With a very non-Christian exclamation, he spun round and raced back down the nave, darting suddenly into the nearest row of pews and crouching down on both knees as he heard the loud ‘crack’ that indicated the heavy iron latch on the north door had been raised.

Next came the sound of the door opening, followed by a familiar bang as it struck the stone pillar just inside, then heavy footsteps advancing along the stone-flagged aisle to the nave. Silence for a few moments before the footsteps resumed, walking slowly down the nave towards the west door. Cotter pressed closer to the back of the pew behind which he sheltered, freezing as the footsteps passed by his hiding-place and praying that they would not stop.

But even the prayers of the Almighty’s chosen ones are not always answered and he was still crouching there with his eyes tightly closed, waiting for a miracle, when the apparition appeared in the pew behind him and leaned over to tap him gently on the shoulder. As he jerked his head round with a terrified cry, a powerful hand grabbed him by the hair, hauling him back on to the seat of the pew, while a soft pad soaked in some sort of strong anaesthetic was pressed tightly over his mouth and nose. His last recollection was of hearing the clock in the church tower begin to strike the hour before a heavy, all-consuming blackness swallowed him whole.