Saxon (4 page)

‘Yeah, because Jake’s gorgeous and good enough to eat…’ Angie was off again.

‘Mmm. Not to mention funny. And kind. And very clean,’ Clare put in, laughing.

‘And healthy.’ Angie was not to be stopped.

‘Good teeth?’ Melanie offered.

Angie hooted. ‘Great teeth.’

They fell about giggling over their sandwiches and Melanie had to grab her Evian bottle to stop it falling over. People walking past them turned to look and smiled to themselves at the sight of three attractive young women, laughing together in the sunshine.

Chapter 4

Monday, May 6, Brighton Police Station, 4.00PM

The office that Saxon was to share with Parker back at police headquarters in Brighton was old but very functional, with an atmosphere of having been lived and worked in for many years. It exuded authority, formality, and even a certain menace. Saxon had used it before. He liked to think that the slight atmosphere of menace had been brought about by years of clenched buttocks involuntarily polishing the seats. Sharing the thought with Parker had induced roars of laughter, almost to the point of tears.

In Saxon’s experience, just being in a police station often made people feel tense and uneasy. Even when they had little or nothing to feel guilty about, the effect was still the same.

But it had to be said that this particular room did have a certain resonance about it. One of the clerks at the station had once remarked to Parker that the room had the right feng shui for its purpose. Parker had been non-committal.

Brighton had its fair share of New-Age enthusiasts. Some might say more than its fair share. While he didn’t know too much about geomancy, and cared even less, Parker was of the opinion that it wasn’t just the surroundings that made people nervous, it was the tactics Saxon used when interviewing.

One such tactic was to stare at the person being questioned and not blink, sometimes for minutes at a time. Saxon could live with the silence and the hard eye contact, but not all the interviewees could. He was already well-known at Brighton Police Station, as he used their facilities from time to time. Some of the police constables had once joked that if the military ever got hold of him, Saxon could be used as a secret weapon.

The walls of the office were oak-panelled; some of the furniture was 1930s, not particularly attractive, but long-lasting. The building could not be said to be on the cutting-edge of office
design and technology, but it did well enough for them.

DS Parker was given a corner to himself and he was relieved to see that he was already on line. Parker loved computers. For Guy Parker, computers held the answer to almost everything. If the solution couldn’t be found in the police computer, then it was because some stupid bastard in records wasn’t doing his or her job properly.

Computers were important in his personal life too. He helped his kids with their homework whenever possible, supervising their searches on the Internet very carefully. He took his parental responsibilities seriously.

When he was away from home, as he knew he would be this week, he made a point of sending an email home to each of the boys every day. Hotmail was still the best invention yet on the Internet, as far as he was concerned. They’d had great fun choosing their email addresses and he knew that “you can check your email from Dad when you…” was a powerful inducement to an ever-growing number of things, including: “finish your dinner”, “pick up your clothes”, “clean your teeth”, “pack up your dinosaurs”, and so on. The possibilities were endless. And Lynne was expert at making the most of it.

Parker was the first to volunteer to go to Starbucks so that he could check his Hotmail and send his daily messages.

The two men made themselves at home.

Monday, May 6, Conquest Hospital Mortuary, Brighton
,
4.15PM

The traumas of the morning were already fading into Tucker’s distant past. Melanie had just smiled at him. She’d even spoken to him. His skin came up in goose pimples at the thought.

‘You look nice this afternoon, Steve,’ she’d said.

And that git, Dalton, had passed some comment too but Tucker couldn’t remember what it was now. Something about a big improvement and something about him, Tucker, taking
things well and in a positive manner.

‘Tosser,’ muttered Tucker under his breath. ‘Total fuckin’ tosser, s’wot ’e is.’

No matter what anyone else had said to him, Melanie’s words were engraved on his soul. Little did he know the effort it had cost her to say the words. Nor could he have guessed that her entire being revolted at the thought of saying them.

No, Tucker was totally unaware of Melanie’s feelings as his fingers strayed to his trouser pocket.

Monday, May 6, Brighton Police Station, 4.15PM

Saxon read the pathologist’s report on Janson. Depressingly sparse would be an understatement. Cause of death: Mr Janson died from a broken neck. There were no marks on the body. No bruising on the head or neck. Nothing. His general health was good. In fact, for a man of his age, he was in remarkably good shape, apart from his being dead.

There were two obvious possibilities. Saxon figured that either Janson knew the killer and let him or her in, or maybe the killer was a hit man, possibly an ex-soldier. In which case, Janson would have not known he was dead until he saw the tunnel with the beckoning white light.

The clues amounted to precisely zero, the same as in the two previous cases, and so far it seemed that none of the victims knew each other. For Rupert Hall and David Crowley, all their phone books and diaries had been thoroughly probed and, unless they were using a cipher on a par with the Enigma code, there was, as far as Saxon could tell, absolutely nothing to connect them at all – apart from their sexual preferences, their age, the fact that they were both male, over 50 and living alone.

Janson might well turn out to share the same sexual preferences. He certainly fit the other points. Overall, they didn’t add up to much. Certainly, there was nothing to point the investigation in any one clear direction. Saxon sighed and
stretched.

He jumped when the telephone buzzed on his desk. He moved forward again and reached for the phone. It was Superintendent Alex Mitchell, the station’s commanding officer.

‘Commander Saxon, good morning to you, sir.’ The voice was hearty. ‘It’s Mitchell here. Would you mind if I pop up and have a chat with you? I know you’re busy, so I’ll keep it brief,’ he said, sounding apologetic. The public school charm oozed through the phone line.

Saxon wasn’t pleased. ‘No problem,’ he answered. ‘Come when you’re ready.’ He hung up the phone quickly. He was exasperated. Saxon didn’t need interruptions from Mitchell. He had more important things on his mind, than to talk about rising crime figures and detection rates. Wasting his time listening to that creep Alex Mitchell, explaining how good he was at his job, was not on his agenda – nor would it ever be if he had his way.

To Saxon, who didn’t care for him at all, Mitchell was your typical fast-track cop: university, then one year on the beat. Saxon tried to avoid sweeping generalisations as far as possible, but Mitchell just invited it. In the past, Saxon had found that Mitchell was good at giving the impression of listening and paying attention. However, he soon realised that all Mitchell was doing was rehearsing his next pronouncement either to the press or the chief constable. Conversations with Mitchell were often a frustrating business.

To make things worse, his “okay yah” accent irritated people even when what he was saying made sense.

A few minutes later Mitchell knocked and entered Saxon’s office.

‘Superintendent Mitchell, come in, sit down,’ Saxon said in a hurried manner.

‘Thank you, Commander.’ Mitchell looked around the room. ‘Everything okay here? You have everything you need?’ Parker pushed his chair back noisily and left the office.

‘I just wanted to drop in and say that if there’s anything, absolutely anything, I or my staff can do to make your time here more, shall I say, productive, then don’t hesitate to call me at any time.’

Saxon said nothing.

‘I should mention that the chief constable has asked me to personally keep him briefed on any developments regarding these cases, you know how much he likes to be on top of things, so to speak,’ Mitchell went on.

This time Saxon was quick to reply.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘But let’s not keep him too informed. He’s too press-friendly for my liking. There are some details I like to keep back. If the public know too much, we’ll have the usual confessors stacked up all along the seafront, waiting to admit to everything from masterminding the Great Train Robbery to the Kennedy assassination just to get their bit of the limelight.’ He paused briefly.

‘It would be a great shame if something were to be inadvertently leaked, wouldn’t it. Particularly if the leak were to be traced back to here.’ He raised his eyebrows.

Mitchell nodded slowly in agreement. ‘Indeed, Commander, I do understand. Only what you agree to release, of course.’

This assurance was accompanied by a confident smile, with significant baring of teeth, and a slight bow of the head. Saxon thought that for once Mitchell seemed genuine. That thought was quickly replaced by the suspicion that it was more than likely just another example of Superintendent Mitchell’s desperate ambition. The entire station knew he was obsessed with promotion and fully capable of achieving heights – or depths even – of brown-nosing that were previously unknown among the population at large.

Mitchell was unaware of the thoughts going through Saxon’s mind. Just as he seemed to be oblivious to the negative vibes he provoked among his own staff. Mitchell had no doubt been on
more than one personal development course, where he’d learnt some, but not all, of the pointers on body language, Saxon thought to himself. That made him smile and Mitchell was in turn sufficiently comforted that his offer had been well-perceived that he ended the conversation, repeating a slight nod of the head as he left the room.

Monday, May 6, Victoria Station, 6.00PM

Penelope Field, or Poppy, as her friends inevitably knew her, stopped at WH Smith on the station forecourt. She bought the evening paper and a copy of
Marie Claire
.

Thank God today was over. Four more days to go before the weekend. She wished, as she did every day, at least once, that she were self-employed and that she didn’t have to do this awful commute every day to a job she no longer enjoyed.

She couldn’t wait to get home to Sewel Mill.

Monday, May 6, 12 Pavilion Square, Brighton, 11.00PM

Saxon parked his car. Would he ever get used to coming home to an empty flat?
Will I ever have to get used to it?

In some ways, he was already coming to terms with it. He no longer expected to see food in the fridge unless he’d bought it himself. He knew that the bedding wasn’t changed unless he did it. He’d been married for six years but he had never become dependent on having someone around to do all that for him, so the transition back to a quasi-bachelor state was not difficult for him, at least not from a practical point of view. Emotionally, it was a different thing.

To his eyes, the separation had come so quickly he hardly had time to draw breath. He’d arrived home at his usual time last night, way past midnight, and she was gone. The note she left for him told him not to worry about her, and that she would phone him in a few days.

It had to be said that apart from the shock of Emma’s sudden
departure, and his ongoing, albeit suppressed, concern that she might not come back, Saxon was a contented man.

This was the place he had always wanted to be. He loved his job. He thrived on the combination of analysis and action, of thinking and hunting. The challenge was to spot the mistakes that all murderers make. The police macho types could keep their dark, smelly alleyways, where they waited for drug deals to go down, or their car chases with lights flashing and sirens blaring, while they belted around narrow streets. Saxon was one of those rare people who enjoyed what they did and were good at it. There had never been any other career for him.

Paul Saxon was just seven years old when his father Richard Saxon was murdered. Even now, the flashbacks still haunted him like scenes from a black and white movie. That was the point in his life, almost to the minute, when he decided to be a policeman. His desire to get the bad guys came from a very strong personal conviction that nobody should have to suffer the way he did. When confronted with a new case the thought always raced through his mind –
how dare people kill, and think that they can get away with it?

In the kitchen, Saxon reached for the Black Label and poured himself a generous two fingers over a couple of ice cubes. Emma would not have been pleased to see the Scotch kept in the kitchen, but she wasn’t there, was she.

Chapter 5

Thursday, May 9, Brighton Police Station, 2.00PM

Parker was satisfied that he had unearthed every scrap of information about Christopher Janson, but disappointed that none of it led to any real breakthroughs at all, apart from the further link with the other two cases, once it was established that Janson, too, was gay.

Although he was well-liked in the village where he lived, it seemed that Janson’s former colleagues and contacts in London’s magazine world were less enthusiastic about their recently departed acquaintance. The generally held view was that talent had played little or no part in the acquisition of the majority of the awards that had so impressed Edie Hayward and so exhausted Guy Parker.

Unless, that is, someone was giving out prizes for being two-faced and highly manipulative. Or perhaps a little statuette in recognition of almost total disregard for ethics and morals if they stood between him and something he wanted. The consensus was that Janson was a creep.

The village was unaware of this persona, knowing him only as a long-term resident, who had worked up in London for many years but who now lived permanently in Sewel Mill. The village viewed him as a charming gentleman, a warm and obliging neighbour. How could they know that Janson had made many enemies throughout his career? Parker was amused at the huge disparity between the two pictures he was given.

Janson was known in the industry as someone who would happily slither past anyone in his way, and then stab them firmly between the shoulder blades if a suitable opportunity presented itself. Having two faces was a minimum requirement in his view, particularly with regard to the editors he’d worked under. Behind their backs, they were morons. To their faces – they were
anything he knew they wanted to be. One old colleague often referred to him as the editor’s lapdog. As the editors came and went, Janson merely changed laps, usually a few weeks before the changeover. He had survived in the industry through mediocre ability combined with stealth and cunning. Not to mention a formidable talent for internal politics. His own best interests took priority, and if someone else suffered in the process, it was hardly his concern.

But while Parker had found any number of people who heartily disliked Janson, none of them looked to have the makings of a murderer and none of them could be linked to either of the other crimes. Parker had a talent for spotting guilt, but not one of the people he interviewed had any effect on his inbuilt guiltometer.

Friday, May 10, Brighton Police Station, 7.00PM

By the end of the week, Saxon admitted reluctantly – but only to himself – that they’d hit something of a wall. A dead-end. He’d suspected they would. Frankly, there was nothing to get a handle on. With no forensic evidence, there was little anyone could do but look and look again for similarities and differences between the cases and just hope for a breakthrough of some kind. He had been over the details so often, the frustration was starting to make his head throb. There had to be something that may give him a lead. No matter how many times he turned it all over in his mind, there was nothing to see. Saxon was well aware that the first forty-eight crucial hours had long passed. His chance of solving this crime was now halved.

He remained convinced that there was a serial killer at work, but he had nothing new to show from their investigations. Saxon had reached the point where he was thinking the unthinkable: the only way forward would be for the killer to strike again and next time, make a mistake. A bloody great big one.

But that was the nature of serial killers; they don’t do it once
because there’s a problem that needs sorting: like a straying wife or girlfriend; or a hopelessly senile but otherwise relentlessly healthy live-in relative; or a sudden panic situation when some poor bloody innocent bystander was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

His father had been just such a victim. Even twenty-eight years after it had happened, Saxon could still remember so many details of the dreadful day. The police arriving suddenly at the front door of the house in Glynde. The muffled conversation, too indistinct to comprehend, and the sudden terrifying cries of his mother. Saxon was taken to his bedroom by a WPC, on the pretence that he could show her his toys. But he was a bright child, and knew something wasn’t right. Why would a policewoman want to see some boring old toys, when clearly something far more important was going on elsewhere in the house?

His father, Richard, had been a quiet, hard-working man, who described himself at dinner parties in their comfortable suburban world as a plain, boring office clerk. He was actually a highly successful accountant, working in the finance department of one of the local government offices in Westminster. He commuted between Glynde and London every day, a true slave to the British Railway system. He had his own seat, not officially of course, just an unspoken reservation. Along with his travelling companions, Richard would finish the
Daily Telegraph
crossword as the train slowly hauled itself into Victoria Station.

One day – his last – Richard Saxon’s destiny was changed by one tiny action. It was so trivial that at the time no one even acknowledged it as the factor that had cost him his life. Looking back and with the undoubted benefit of hindsight, Saxon was convinced that the police, always looking for motives and intrigue, overlooked the fact that it was a simple case of wrong time, wrong place.

Under normal circumstances, Saxon senior avoided public
toilets. The character of those places dedicated to strange glances and unpleasant odours made him uncomfortable. On that day, the last one, he’d broken this habit because, quite simply, he had to. He knew he wouldn’t make it home without finding a toilet and if he used the one on the train, he would run the risk of losing his seat to another anxious commuter. Besides, he had a good ten minutes before the train would even arrive, so there was time. As it turned out, those ten minutes were far from good.

Nobody saw or heard a thing, as is usual in London when a crime is committed. It was the blood. Copious amounts of the stuff, seeping out from under the cubicle door, slowly progressing over the tiles, until it reached the urinal at the far end, where it then ran faster than most of the trains, down into the sewer. The poor man, who spotted it first, apart from pissing down his leg, also emptied the contents of his stomach into the Technicolor nightmare that had well and truly fouled up his evening.

No arrest was ever made, and the file gathered dust. And more dust. Nobody ever knew what had happened. It was never established whose path had crossed Saxon’s so dramatically that fateful evening. The fact that his briefcase was never found indicated that the motive was robbery. Eventually – even though the police hated to admit it, the file was put on the “probably will not be solved” pile. Although, as in all unsolved murder cases, it was never officially closed.

Saxon junior dragged himself back to the present. Serial killers were not like that. They played a completely different game. And there was precious little chance involved in most cases.

So on this Friday night, just five days after Janson had met his end at Sewel Mill, Saxon found himself in a situation that was not one he relished. By now, he normally had advanced to a more positive stage in a murder inquiry. At least, he usually had a suspect, someone to visit now and again and lean on, or even just
to watch. This time he had nothing. He put the files away and checked that it was all tidy. Parker had gone back up to Croydon an hour or so ago, for a ferocious welcome from his kids. Saxon envied him and yet he didn’t. He left for home.

Friday, May 10, 12 Pavilion Square, Flat 4, Brighton, 9.00PM

Saxon’s apartment was in one of the Regency squares just up from the Brighton seafront. His mother had moved the family down to the coast from Glynde within a year of her husband’s death, in a desperate effort to get away from the memories. Saxon had since always lived by the sea, enjoying the sense of freedom and freshness.

He often walked along the coast, no matter what the weather threw at it or him. He liked to think that the wind seemed to blow away the trivia attached to a case he was working on and leave the relevant facts neatly filed in the right part of his mind. When thinking, serious thinking, was required, there was no better place as far as he was concerned.

Closing the door behind him and locking it, he picked up the post on the mat and glanced through it. There was nothing there that wouldn’t wait, at least until Saturday morning, and he spotted a few things that would go straight in the bin without even being opened. How on earth did some of these people come by his name and address?

Dropping the unopened post with his keys on the hall table, he took off his jacket as he walked through to the sitting room. The apartment was extensive and bright, chosen by Emma at least in part for its light.

Saxon had trusted her judgment on this, since he couldn’t quite see much difference between the five places they had eventually whittled the choice down to. The short list, for him, was clear: transport and access to the sea-front. Once they were met, Emma had his blessing to make all the final decisions.

Fortunately, the ones she liked had met his requirements too,
so there had been no disagreement on that score. They’d lived there about two years now.

Everything in the apartment was white and minimalist, but right now, it had to be admitted, it was somewhat untidy, certainly more so than usual. For a start, there were dirty clothes slung across some of the chairs. And Saxon paused to admire the tottering, but interesting, dish and plate sculpture growing in and around the kitchen sink.

Must stack that lot in the dishwasher
. It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed his mind.

Saxon didn’t cook much, at least not while Emma was around and even less when she was away. There didn’t seem to be much point. So why rush to wash up every five minutes? They had plenty of china and enough forks. The dishes only greased up again next time you used them. He survived as much as he could on instant meals and the odd takeaway. Anything, in fact, except police canteen food. Unless of course, it was fried eggs and bacon on the menu – it was difficult to get that wrong. Any other delicacies were fed to the criminals in an effort to make them talk. He had grinned to himself, enjoying the traditional humour.

Emma was an interior designer and the flat was a prime example of her talent. He winced slightly at the thought of her reaction to its current state. He got himself a Scotch and water and stopped worrying. She and Kate were very successful at what they did. Emma’s ideas were much sought after.

Money was not a problem to either of them. Her income outstripped his considerably though he didn’t let it bother him. On the contrary, Emma’s success was something he admired about her and always had. He’d been drawn to her in the first place by her energy and her determination.

He thought about her now, thought about what she might be doing as he sat and sipped his drink. He loosened his tie and put his feet up. Looking straight ahead, he faced the sea; it had been a pleasant day weather-wise and there were still some yachts
racing back and forth between the two piers. The majority of them, however, headed back to the marina, as they were amateur sailors who didn’t want to sail after sunset.

The sounds of traffic were muted because they were four floors up. Another one of the benefits of living in the top apartment. He recalled Kate’s flat in Marylebone High Street. He liked the area, although he wouldn’t have wanted to live there himself. They had been there for drinks and dinners on more than one occasion. He imagined the two of them coming home from work. No, they’d probably be going out to dinner somewhere, maybe after a brief drink in some wine bar with a friend or business acquaintance.

So, Emma was with Kate for the foreseeable future.

Paul Saxon settled down for a night of channel flicking and Scotch. He wasn’t hungry.

Friday, May 10, Kemp Town, Brighton, 9.15PM

Across town, at chez Tucker, an altogether different kind of evening was kicking off.

Steve Tucker had earned the nickname “Fucker Tucker” during his limited time at school. Schoolboy humour being what it was, and is, there was no great mystery about the origins of the name.

Tucker had hated school with a passion. He didn’t want to be there and never had. In Tucker’s view, a good enough reason for not being there, but not particularly persuasive to the authorities. Sadly, nobody else wanted him at school either. Not the other kids and not the teachers either. One or two of his teachers had gone so far as to tell him that he would never amount to much, if anything.

It was hardly surprising then, that he had concluded at a relatively early age that for some strange reason he would never attain his full share of what life freely gave to others. Sometimes he thought that maybe it was his teachers’ fault that his life was
so clearly substandard compared to the lives of people around him. But he wasn’t sure because he couldn’t pin it down to anything specific. But he was sure they must have had something to do with it. Something they said maybe.

He planned to seek revenge on those teachers on a fairly regular basis, and show them just how clever he had become. How he would actually accomplish this never fully gelled in his mind. One idea he had considered was to send them something nasty in the post. But he wasn’t sure how he’d get it in the envelope. Besides, it would probably seep out before it was delivered.

His revenge plots never came to fruition, as did very little else, because his concentration would waver after a few minutes, and he would become entranced by a television advert for a chat line or a refrigerator. Thirty seconds later, as with most things, the plans for revenge became a distant memory. He was a sad case.

You could describe Tucker’s past as a disaster and have no fear of repercussions under the Trade Descriptions Act. But he had hopes for the future. Tucker saw himself as a comedian. He always had a filthy joke on the tip of his tongue, and had dreams of being a stand-up comic. The trouble was he had no concept of timing and zero talent. He couldn’t understand why, at the few auditions he’d attended, he had never been allowed to lurch more than one minute into his routine. Some bastard always stopped him with a ‘Thanks, we’ll phone you.’ They never did, the sods, they were bastards. Ignorant bastards.