Justice for the Damned (11 page)

Reece picked up the mug and sniffed the dregs of milky tea. They gave off a strong tang of whisky. ‘For Christ’s sake, Dad.’

Frank stirred, opening one bloodshot eye. ‘What are you doing here?’ he growled in a voice sanded down by a lifetime of heavy smoking.

‘Have you forgotten you’re going for chemo today?’

‘Course I haven’t bloody forgotten. I wish I could forget it.’

‘Then why aren’t you dressed?’ Reece tapped his watch. ‘We’re supposed to be at the hospital by ten.’

‘What are you talking about? My chemo doesn’t start until one.’

‘Yes, but remember Doctor Meadows wants to run some tests beforehand.’

‘Tests,’ Frank snorted. ‘I’m sick of tests. What’s the point of them?’

‘Doctor Meadows wants to find out how you’re—’

‘I know what the bastard wants to find out,’ Frank interrupted, his voice rising. ‘I just don’t see why he needs to do more tests to tell him what’s bleeding obvious. I mean, look at me. Just about the only thing I’m not losing is my hair.’

‘Come on, Dad. You’ve just got time for a quick shower and shave.’

Reece stooped to help his dad to his feet. Frank slapped his hand away. ‘I don’t need your help. Not yet.’ Arms trembling, he pushed himself upright.

‘I’ll make you some breakfast,’ said Reece.

‘Don’t bother. You know I can’t keep anything down after chemo.’

‘Even so, you should eat something.’

While his dad was showering, Reece made tea and toast and took it up to him. Frank emerged from the bathroom, shaved and smelling of the same strong aftershave he’d been using for as long as Reece could remember. Hot water and razor burn had brought some colour into his face. Scowling, he lashed out, knocking the plate from his son’s hand. ‘I told you I don’t want any fucking breakfast! Christ, you’re just like your mother. You never bloody listen.’ He pushed past Reece into a bedroom, slamming the door behind himself.

Sighing, Reece retrieved the plate and returned to the kitchen. The sound of coughing came from upstairs. It continued for a minute or two, rising to a hacking, choking pitch, then subsided. A moment later, Frank slowly descended the stairs. He waited by the front door, breath grating in his throat, lips compressed into a pained line. Knowing that any show of concern would only draw more of his dad’s anger, Reece headed outside to the car.

Neither man spoke as they threaded their way through the dregs of rush-hour traffic. Oppressed by the silence, Reece turned on the radio. The news was on, and as always over the past few days, the newsreader was talking about the spate of murders that had rocked the city. ‘Police are still searching for the man who shot and killed Detective Inspector Amy Sheridan,’ the newsreader announced. ‘He’s described as thirty to forty years old, five feet eleven to six feet two, well-built, with dark brown eyes and hair. He was last seen wearing a black bomber jacket, and is thought to be driving a black Range Rover. He’s also known to have suffered a serious injury to his left eye. He’s armed and extremely dangerous. If you see the suspect, under no circumstances approach him. Call the police on the number provided at the end of this piece. Meanwhile, police have confirmed that the gun used in the killings of well-known local accountant Herbert Winstanley and his wife Marisa at their Grenoside house, was also used to shoot dead the prominent psychiatrist Doctor Henry Reeve. Speculation continues as to whether known prostitute, Grace Kirby, was responsible for all three deaths, and if so what motivated her to commit such brutal—’

The newsreader was silenced by Frank switching to another channel. ‘I’m so sick and tired of hearing about these murders.’

‘What do you make of it all?’

‘I’m buggered if I know or give a shit. Anyway, what you asking me for? You’re the copper, not me.’

‘I thought it was once a cop always a cop.’

Frank barked out a hoarse laugh. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Doug Brody.’

‘Yeah, well, Doug’s always had a talent for talking out of his arse.’ Frank pressed his hand to his mouth as another spasm of coughing racked him. When he drew it away, an oyster of blood-speckled phlegm glistened in his palm. Quickly wiping it on a handkerchief, he said croakily, ‘You want to know what I really think? Scumbags will always be killing each other. And so what if they do? Why should we care?’

‘What are you saying? That we should just sit back and let them wipe each other out?’

‘Why not? What’s a few less perverts and whores in this world?’

Reece shot his dad a sidelong glance. Had he detected a slight stress on the word ‘whore’? Had his dad been talking to Doug about Staci? He’d obviously been talking to someone working the Grace Kirby case as he knew it involved sexual perversion – a detail which had so far been kept from the media. ‘And what if these scumbags start hurting innocent people?’

‘That’s when we should crack down on the bastards with everything we’ve got. And I don’t just mean throw them in jail.’ Frank clenched his fist, displaying white lines of scars on his knuckles. ‘I mean we should hurt them like they hurt us. Fear, that’s the only thing their world respects. Remember that.’

The muscles in Reece’s jaw stood out as his teeth clenched. He didn’t need to be told to remember that. He still had the scars to remind him of how his dad had applied that philosophy not just to criminals, but to everyone in his life.

The boxy, grey outline of Weston Park Hospital loomed into view. Reece parked up and started to get out of the car. ‘You don’t need to come in with me,’ said Frank.

‘Are you sure?’

‘There you go again. Just like your mother. Course I’m bloody sure. I wouldn’t have said so if I wasn’t.’

Look, I’m just trying to do my best here.
The words flashed through Reece’s brain, but he knew saying them would be a waste of breath. When the diagnosis had first been made, the oncologist had warned Reece that his father might undergo some personality changes during his course of treatment.
Some people accept their illness
, he’d said.
Others become angry and resentful.
Reece hadn’t been able to detect any such changes. But then his dad had always been an angry bastard. ‘Call me when it’s over and I’ll come pick you up.’

Frank hauled himself out of the car. As Reece watched him head into the hospital, he thought,
I hope you’re right. I hope I am more like Mum.

Reece pulled out his iPhone, navigated to the BT phone book and searched for ‘Tisdale, Sheffield’. There was no H. Tisdale listed. He scrolled through his contacts until he found the number of Alan Dobson, a crime reporter at the South Yorkshire
Chronicle
. He’d already spent a fruitless hour earlier in the day on the phone to various morgues and hospitals, trying to find out if anyone fitting Melinda’s description had been brought in. Now it was time to try a different tack. When Alan picked up, Reece said, ‘Hi, Alan, this is Reece Geary. I was wondering if you could help me out. I’m trying to track down Vernon Tisdale.’

‘Old Vernon. He retired some seven or eight years ago. Health issues.’

‘Have you got an address for him?’

‘Can I ask what this is in regards to?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t go into that.’

‘Oh come on, Reece, you can give me a hint. You know, you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours sort of thing.’ When Reece made no reply, the journalist added, ‘Tell you what, I’ll ask a question or two and you just give me yes or no answers. Has this got anything to do with the recent murders?’

‘No.’

‘Are you certain of that?’

Reece hesitated again. It would have been simpler to get Tisdale’s details from the PNC Vehicle File database, but he was reluctant to do anything that might draw the attention of his superiors. The last thing he wanted was to have to come up with some bullshit to explain to DCI Garrett how he knew Staci and why she’d come to him with the information about her missing friend. He wondered, not for the first time, whether there could possibly be any connection to the events surrounding Grace Kirby. The only connection he could see – and it was a tenuous one at that, considering Grace had never been arrested for streetwalking in Sheffield – was that both cases involved prostitutes. Of course, that didn’t mean there weren’t other as yet unseen connections. ‘Yes, I’m certain. And no more questions.’

‘Fair enough. Give me a minute and I’ll dig out Vernon’s details for you.’

The line was silent a moment, then Alan came back on it and gave Reece a landline number and an address in Crookes, only five or so minutes’ drive away. ‘Have you got a mobile number for him?’ asked Reece.

Alan chuckled as if he’d heard something funny. ‘Vernon was a real old-school kind of journalist. He thought mobiles were the devil’s work.’

Reece thanked him, hung up and accelerated out of the car park.

Vernon Tisdale’s house was halfway along a street of terraced houses. Like Reece’s father’s house, it showed signs of neglect: rotting window frames; a green streak of damp down the wall where the guttering was leaking. Reece knocked on the front door. Half a minute passed. No answer. He tried again. Still no response. He was about to head back to his car when the door opened just wide enough for a face to peer out. The face was as fat and round as a full moon. A scruffy greying beard fringed its purplish lips. Jaundiced-looking eyes stared uninterestedly at Reece from above cheeks that wheezed in and out as if their owner had been exerting himself.

‘Vernon Tisdale?’

‘Who wants to know?’

Reece explained who he was, adding, ‘I’m making inquiries into a missing prostitute that may, or may not, be connected to other similar disappearances in this area. I’m told you’re the man to speak to about such things.’

‘Is this an official investigation?’

‘No. I’m making inquiries on behalf of…’ hesitation touched Reece’s voice, ‘a friend.’

A flicker of interest disturbed the man’s expression. ‘In that case, I’m Vernon and you’d better come in.’

Vernon dragged the door halfway open before it seemed to jam against something. He was wearing grubby grey tracksuit bottoms and an equally grubby Hawaiian shirt. His stomach, which bulged like a sack of grain over his waistband, brushed against the wall as he turned away from Reece. As Reece entered the house, he saw what was preventing the door from fully opening. Piles of tattered yellowing newspapers and magazines were stacked floor-to-ceiling all along one side of the hallway, leaving barely enough room for Vernon to squeeze past. No wonder it had taken him so long to answer the door, reflected Reece. The air smelt bad, only it wasn’t simply stale like at his dad’s house, it was rotten enough to almost knock you over.

Reece followed Vernon into what might once have been a dining room. There was a table against the outside wall, almost buried by the newspapers and cardboard boxes piled on and around it. Many of the boxes had a date scrawled on them, although they didn’t appear to be arranged in any particular order. The earliest date Reece picked out at a glance was 1980. A cat as fat and scruffy as its owner lay curled up on a battered leather armchair. Opposite the chair was a sofa with an old television close enough to it to switch channels without a remote. Vernon shooed the cat away and motioned for Reece to sit. As he did so, a faint scrabbling sound from somewhere amongst the clutter drew his attention.

‘I’ve got mice,’ explained Vernon. ‘They’re incontinent, you know. Never stop pissing and shitting.’ He jerked his thumb at the cat. ‘That’s why I got her. Not that the lazy bugger’s much cop at catching them. You want a cup of tea?’

‘No thanks.’ Reece wasn’t normally squeamish, but he couldn’t have swallowed a mouthful in that house of mouldering, mice-eaten newspapers.

‘What about something stronger?’ Vernon retrieved a bottle of Scotch from the carpet.

‘I’m driving.’

‘That never seemed to bother most of the coppers I used to know.’ Vernon poured a generous measure of whisky into a chipped mug. With a grunt, he lowered his bulky frame onto the sofa. ‘So tell me about this missing prostitute.’

‘I don’t know for sure that she’s actually missing. She may just have left town.’

Vernon raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you know how many prostitutes have
just left
this city never to be heard of again over the last thirty or so years?’

‘No.’

‘Neither do I. Not exactly. But I’m willing to bet it’s a lot more than have
just left
most other comparably sized cities in this country, if you get my meaning.’

As Reece filled Vernon in on the details of Melinda’s disappearance, the ex-journalist scribbled down some brief notes. ‘Have you got a photo of her?’ asked Vernon.

Reece showed him the photo of Melinda drinking in a bar. Vernon nodded as if he’d seen something familiar. ‘She’s certainly his type.’

‘Whose type?’

‘Freddie Harding. He likes them young and skinny.’

Lines of surprise creased Reece’s forehead. ‘Are you saying you know who the perp is?’

‘Let me show you something, Detective Inspector.’ Vernon heaved himself to his feet and waddled towards the wall of cardboard boxes. He rifled through several of them, before finding what he wanted. He unfolded a map of Yorkshire and laid it on the sofa. It was dotted with red marker. Most of the dots were concentrated around Sheffield, Barnsley and Doncaster. A triangle had been drawn in black marker linking the three built-up areas. Roughly at the centre of the triangle there was a black dot. ‘Back in 1998 I drew up a list of prostitutes I believed to have been abducted and murdered between 1980 and that year. When I mapped out their disappearances, I found there was an unusual concentration in three areas. Seven in Barnsley, nine in Doncaster, and thirteen in Sheffield.’

‘How many of those are still classified as missing?’

‘All of them. I mapped this out in 2001, after your pals had scratched off several of the names on my list. And this only represents disappearances up until that time. More girls have gone missing since then.’

‘How many more?’

Vernon shrugged. ‘Who knows? Who even cares? You’re the first person I’ve spoken to about this stuff in years.’