Slice (6 page)

‘Our killer is a bit of an amateur, then?’ Gilham summarized.

She treated him to a grim smile. ‘At the moment, yes, but we all improve with practice, don’t we?’

The implication of the remark was not lost on the two policemen, but before either got the chance to pursue the subject further, all conversation was interrupted by the melodic ring-tone of a mobile.

Gilham hurriedly jerked the offending telephone from his pocket, wincing his embarrassment.

The call did not last long and after a series of nods and grunts, he rejoined them. ‘Someone wants to see me,’ he said.

Fulton raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Someone?’

Gilham glanced at Abbey and she took the hint and moved away. ‘We may have a witness,’ he went on.

‘Then we’d better get to him pdq.’

‘Sorry, Jack, it has to be just me this time.’

The big man caught on in an instant. ‘One of your snouts, is it?’

‘Used to be when I was a DI here. Seems he found out I was back and wants to trade.’

‘You’d better get off then, but keep me informed.

‘But how will you get back? We came in my motor, don’t forget. Do you want me to call the nick for one of the lads to pick you up?’

Abbey was obviously paying more attention than they had appreciated. ‘I can drop him back, Phil. I’m through here now anyway.’

Fulton grunted. ‘What sharp little ears you have, Ab,’ he said. ‘I hope your eyes are as good if you’re driving me.’

She smiled sweetly. ‘You can always walk, Jack.’ she retorted. ‘And you sure could do with the exercise.’

LENNY BAKER WAS
the archetypal low life, the epitome of a petty criminal who would have delighted any caricaturist or film director looking for a suitable subject. In fact, he could not have looked more like a crook if he had tried. Built like a sparrow, with sparse ginger hair, gold-capped front teeth and sharp blue eyes which were always on the move, he wore a grubby fawn anorak and scuffed suede shoes that even Oxfam would have rejected, and carried a copy of a racing newspaper in one hand, which he constantly slapped against his thigh as if swatting some invisible fly.

Gilham had just about tolerated the mouthy little cockney during his time as DI at the Saddler Street nick, even though he knew his principal source of information was breaking into houses at the same time as he was grassing to the police. Trouble was, Lenny’s information was usually pretty reliable, so he was someone to be listened to and that meant turning a blind eye to his own dodgy activities, where possible.

The meet was at a disused cement works close to the railway line; dramatic enough for Lenny and his obsession with gangster movies. The little man looked a lot older than Gilham would have expected in the three years that had elapsed since he had last clapped eyes on him and he now wore a livid mauve scar down the left side of his face. ‘The O’Leary brothers,’ Lenny said with pride. ‘A warnin’ for poking me nose. Risky business I’m in, you know.’

Gilham looked around him at the derelict machinery, black and stark in the watery sunlight, and nodded, unimpressed by the uninvited explanation. ‘So what have you got for me?’ he said with undisguised impatience.

Baker grinned. ‘That depends on how much it’s worth.’

Gilham shook his head. ‘No, Lenny, it depends on how much I
think
it’s worth.’

The other moved away and lit a cigarette with as much Humphrey Bogart aplomb as he could manage. ‘A monkey is what it’s worth.’

Gilham sighed. ‘If you’re going to be stupid, Lenny … For five hundred pounds, I’d expect to get the Queen’s telephone number.’

Lenny chuckled. ‘I could give you the numbers of lots of queens, if you was interested.’ He hesitated. ‘OK, a ton then an’ no less.’

‘A pony and that’s only if it’s something we don’t know already. I don’t want to hear some regurgitated press report.’

Lenny’s face darkened. ‘Listen, boss, what I saw is worth a lot more than twenty-five bleedin’ quid.’

‘OK, so forty then and that’s it – provided what you tell me is kosher.’

‘Now come on, Mr Gilham, would it be anythin’ else? I’ve got me reputation to think of—’

The little man broke off and darted a swift frightened glance towards a ruined concrete building a few yards from where they were standing. ‘What was that?’ he breathed.

Gilham followed the direction of his gaze. ‘I heard nothing.’

‘You sure you came alone?’

‘You know I did. You saw me arrive.’

‘And you weren’t followed?’

Gilham sighed, used to Baker’s sense of the dramatic. ‘No, I wasn’t followed, Lenny,’ he replied. ‘And this isn’t the film set of
The Godfather
either, all right?’

As he spoke, a ginger cat materialized from the shadows of the building and streaked off across the scabby concrete apron in front of them, disappearing into a patch of scrub several yards away.

Baker gave a sheepish grin and relaxed. ‘Sorry, Mr Gilham, I’m a bit on edge at the moment. Goes with the job, see.’

‘Can we get on, Lenny?’ Gilham said, his impatience showing.

The little man nodded. ‘Fact is, I was out for a walk two nights ago – the night your man got stiffed—’

‘A walk? Looking for somewhere to screw, you mean?’

‘Actually, I’d been to a mate’s house for a poker game, OK? Anyway, I decides to take a short cut across the rec. Then I sees this geezer sitting on one of the kiddies’ swings.’

Gilham’s heart lurched. ‘You saw the dead man?’

Baker shrugged. ‘Didn’t know he was brown bread then. Thought he was some nutter out from somewhere or a queer waitin’ for a punter. A lot of ’em gets down the rec at night.’

‘What – sitting on a swing stark naked?’

‘Well, there’s some funny people about, ain’t there? Anyway, all I saw of him was a sort of silhouette, ’alf buried in shadow. Didn’t know he was starkers ’till I read the papers.’

‘What time was all this then?’

‘I left Larry’s place at just after midnight, so it must’ve been around twelve-fifteen or twelve-twenty.’

‘And you weren’t curious enough to take a closer look at the man?’

‘No bleedin’ fear. I didn’t like the look of him – all still and hunched up like – and besides, he ’ad company.’

Gilham’s heart was pounding hard now. ‘What do you mean by company?’

‘There was a motor in the car park, almost hidden under some trees.’

‘Anyone in it?’

‘Dunno, I just scarpered. Left by the side entrance into Milton Avenue.’

‘Why the panic?’

‘It was a cop car.’

‘It was a
what
?’ Gilham stared at him. ‘You sure about this?’

The little man nodded, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. ‘Yellow and blue squares all over it an’ a nice police sign on the front an’ back. It was a cop car all right.’

‘And you’re positive about the time?’

‘Definite. I know I was home by twelve-thirty. I’d made a point of getting back for the start of one of them adult films on the telly. It was down for twelve-thirty-five an’ it started just after I hung me coat up. Thing is, papers are sayin’ some flatfoot found the stiff just after one a.m. So how come this other copper didn’t report it earlier?’

Gilham was not in a position to answer that question, but the implications of Baker’s revelations sent an icy chill down his spine and after paying him off, he made his way to his car in a semi daze – which is probably why he failed to appreciate that his meeting with Lenny had not been quite as private as he had imagined.

Abbey Lee lived in a neat mews terrace, which reflected taste and style – from the reproduction Picasso paintings on the pastel-painted walls to the various sculptures positioned carefully in wall niches and glass-fronted cabinets.

She poured Fulton a coffee from a stainless steel percolator after waving him to a chair. ‘Don’t you light that damned weed in here,’ she snapped over her shoulder, sensing his hand moving towards the packet of cigarettes in his pocket.

He made a face as she set the bone-china coffee cup and saucer in front of him. ‘Haven’t you anything stronger?’

She gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘I said we’d drop by my place for a coffee and this is it. You drink too much anyway.’

‘My business.’

‘Maybe, but this is
my
flat, so it’s coffee or nothing, OK?’

He took a couple of sips and appraised her from under hooded lids. Out of the green mortuary overalls, she looked nothing like the sort of girl who spent most of her working life dismembering corpses. Although in her mid-thirties, she obviously looked after herself, probably through regular workouts in the gym. Her breasts were small and rounded beneath the thin white blouse and the tight black trousers showed off her narrow hips and firm rounded thighs to perfection. Even the shoulder-length black hair had a healthy vitality about it and the smile that could light up those big green eyes in a second now hovered uncertainly over the slightly crooked mouth, as if embarrassed by the focus of his gaze.

‘Do you have to keep staring at my boobs, Jack?’ she said, glancing down at herself.

He jumped, startled at the directness of the question, and slopped some of the coffee from his cup into his lap.

She shook her head with cynical amusement, tossing him a linen serviette. ‘You ought to have a bib, Superintendent,’ she said.

‘Sorry about your chair,’ he blurted. ‘Hand just slipped and—’

‘Bathroom’s first on the right,’ she cut in, indicating the short corridor to the front door.

For several minutes he stood in front of the wash-hand basin, staring at himself in the mirror. The heavy-jowled face that stared back revolted him – particularly with Janet’s nail marks now adorning one cheek like some aboriginal self-mutilation. What had he become? A few years ago it had been rugby, football – any sport available. As a detective constable, he had even boxed for his department. But a lot of the muscle had turned to fat over the years, assisted by greasy takeaway meals and booze, and now he hated the sight of himself. No wonder Janet had lost interest in him. He was just an overweight nicotine junkie, married to a job that had wrecked his health and domestic life and now didn’t give a damn about him any more. Just for a second there was a tear in one eye, but then he blinked, tightened his jaw and it was gone. The machismo image was all he had left – no sense losing that as well.

‘Jack, you all right in there?’

He heard Abbey’s anxious call and splashed some cold water over his face before returning to the sitting room. ‘Just taking stock, Ab,’ he replied, without intending to say that at all, ‘just taking stock.’

There was concern on her face. ‘Taking stock of what, Jack?’

He shook his head, angry with himself for the Freudian slip. ‘Nothing, Ab. Now, I’ve got to get back.’

She placed a restraining hand on his arm. ‘If there’s something you need to talk about, I’m a good listener.’

He firmly removed her hand. ‘There’s nothing
to
talk about,’ he retorted, his tone sharper than he had meant it to be. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

‘But you’ve barely touched it.’

He took a deep breath. ‘Look, I shouldn’t have come here at all. It was a bad mistake.’

‘Why?’

He turned for the door. ‘Just run me back, will you, Ab – or do I have to call the incident room for a car?’

She stepped in front of him. ‘Jack, listen to me. I know that behind all this hard man front you put up, there’s a decent sensitive person desperate to get out. So why do you put so much effort into frightening people off? What are you afraid of? That someone will actually get to like you?’

He jerked out his mobile telephone and flicked open the cover. ‘I haven’t got time for all this,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve got a murder to investigate.’

‘And a wife to sort out.’

It was a cheap shot and she regretted it as soon as she had made it, but she didn’t get the chance to take the remark back, for the phone in his hand chose that precise moment to end their conversation.

‘Jack?’ Phil Gilham’s voice sounded strained and apprehensive. ‘We need to meet up pdq. Suggest your office. Ben Morrison will be there too.’

‘Sounds like bad news?’

‘The worst.’

Fulton threw Abbey a questioning glance and she made a grimace in response. ‘Damn it!’ she muttered under her breath as she scooped up her car ignition keys.

On the other side of the street opposite the house, Ewan McGuigan was a lot happier than either Abbey or Fulton as he raised his camera and took several shots of them walking towards Abbey’s four-by-four. ‘Gotcha!’ he murmured as they drove away.

Ben Morrison’s legendary habit of gum chewing was in overdrive when Fulton joined the stocky ex-marine and his own number two in the little incident room office. Morrison was more hyped up than Fulton had ever seen him. The veins in his muscular temples were corded like the taut strands of a tent’s guy ropes as he leaned against the radiator, while Gilham, propped uncomfortably on the corner of the desk, looked pale and shaken.

‘So, what have we got?’ Fulton demanded, falling into his chair.

Gilham nodded towards Morrison and the DI shifted the gum to one side of his mouth, his eyes darting from Fulton to Gilham, then back again. ‘PC Derringer, guv,’ he said. ‘Seems to have disappeared.’

‘What do you mean, disappeared?’

Morrison shrugged. ‘Didn’t turn up for duty last night. Tommy Lester, shift inspector, rang him to find out why and couldn’t raise him.’

Fulton glanced at Gilham. ‘But I was told he’d called in sick.’

Morrison nodded. ‘Tommy was just trying to protect Derringer’s arse, guv,’ he said. ‘Looking after one of his own – you know the score.’

‘I’ll have his balls for this.’

Morrison chewed furiously for a few seconds. ‘Can’t blame him, guv,’ he defended. ‘We all look after our own, don’t we? Sort of unwritten rule. You sort out your own problems, not spread ’em around ’less you have to.’

‘So how do we know Derringer’s done a bunk?’

‘We don’t, but when Tommy got no reply on the phone, he left it till shift change from nights to late turn today. Came on an hour early and went round to his home. Derringer lives on his tod in basement flat in Quarry Street. Never married. One of the neighbours – Emily Stewart – saw him leave in his Jag at about 08.30 yesterday morning. Ain’t seen him since.’

‘A Jaguar?’ Fulton echoed, thinking of his humble Volvo.

‘Yeah, new three-litre something job apparently.

‘How the hell does he manage to run that on a bobby’s pay?’

Morríson shook his head. ‘Dunno. It’s raised a few eyebrows in the nick though.’

‘And you’ve checked out Derringer’s address?’

‘Not yet. Only spoke to Tommy half-hour ago. He said place was dead.’

Fulton lit a cigarette. ‘Derringer’s a deceitful little bugger by all accounts. Maybe he’s just swinging the lead and has gone off somewhere for the day.’

‘Could be,’ Morrison acknowledged, ‘but it don’t look good.’

‘And it gets a lot worse, Jack,’ Gilham put in. ‘The snout I went to see was apparently out and about the night Lyall was murdered and he tells me he crossed the rec at around 00.15 and 00.20 and actually saw Lyall slumped on the swing, though he swears blind he didn’t know he was dead then.’

‘Why should that make things worse for Derringer? We know Lyall was done sometime around 23.00 hours and must have been dumped in the rec between then and the time our man stumbled on the corpse.’

‘True, but there’s something else. My informant tells me that at the time he saw the corpse, there was a marked police car parked in the rec, almost hidden under some trees.’

Fulton gaped at him for a second, the cigarette stuck to his bottom lip. ‘You sure this man of yours is not having a laugh?’