The Judas Sheep (23 page)

The pulsating lights illuminated the front of the building as if it were a stage-set for some modern opera. Black smoke-stains streaked upwards from all the windows, including mine, and the chorus of firemen in oilskins and yellow helmets could be seen inside. No
soprano appeared, belting out one of the tear-jerkers from Madame Butterfly.

I opened my mouth to say: ‘Wait here,’ but changed it to ‘C’mon,’ as I stepped from the car. We edged our way to the front of the house, skirting behind the appliances and assorted vehicles. First in the queue was a Rover with a blue light on top and a fireman with fancy epaulettes clipped to his sweater standing alongside, talking to a policeman. I let go of Annabelle’s hand and asked her to wait while I had a word with them.

The fireman was the Assistant Divisional Officer. When I asked if I could have a few seconds of his time the Constable excused himself and left us. When he’d gone I showed my ID and introduced myself. ‘I don’t want to become bogged down with the local Force,’ I explained, ‘but I was keeping an eye on the occupant of Number one. He’s known as Kevin Jessie, and is a suspected drug runner. I’d rented next door and was hoping he’d lead us to the bigger fish. Was that him in the ambulance?’

‘No, Inspector. We’ve sent the ambulance back empty and your colleague has informed the local CID that you have a murder on your hands.’

‘So poor Kevin’s dead?’

‘No doubt about it, if it’s him.’

‘Does that mean you think the fire was deliberate?’

‘Off the record, you understand? Almost certainly. An accelerant has been used in several places, probably petrol.’

‘Where was Jessie’s body found?’

‘Upstairs, on the bed.’

‘So the smoke got him?’ That was a relief – I had a soft spot for Kevin. Anyone who appreciates the E-type like he did can’t be completely beyond hope.

‘Do you think his gang were on to you, Inspector?’

I’d been wondering the same thing. ‘It’s a possibility,’ I replied. ‘What makes you ask?’

‘Because he didn’t die peacefully of carbon-monoxide poisoning. You see, Inspector, his hands and feet are tied to the bedposts.’

I wended my way back to Annabelle, stepping over hoses and squeezing between appliances whose engines were running to generate power, their radiators blasting hot air into the night. She looked smaller, vulnerable, amongst all that activity. Her face was pale, the African tan washed away by the lights, and there was something else there. She looked scared.

‘Let’s go home,’ I said, running my fingers into her hair and pulling her towards me. Several cars were slinking by, under the control of the PC. When the lane was clear he stood in the middle while I did a
seven-point
turn, and flagged me away as if I were a Saudi royal. I gave him a wave and a wink.

‘Kevin is dead,’ I told her, bluntly. ‘They found him laid on his bed.’

After a few moments she said: ‘Poor Kevin, he didn’t sound to be beyond redemption. So he wouldn’t have known much about it?’

I shook my head. ‘No, he wouldn’t.’

The car behind had badly adjusted headlights. The offside was OK, but the other one shone straight ahead, dazzling me through my mirrors. I tilted my head to one side to avoid the glare, and we drove into Hull in silence.

‘I’ll have to put in an insurance claim,’ I said. ‘That should cause some confusion in the system.’ It was only for conversation; I had other things on my mind.

At seventy miles per hour the E-type is running like a sewing machine at a lazy three thousand revs. I slotted into the middle lane of the motorway and settled down for a leisurely cruise home. I suggested that she looked for some music, but Annabelle said she didn’t mind the silence. When I glanced in the mirror I noticed that the car with the odd headlights was coming this way, too. He was about four hundred yards behind, but not gaining.

Heavy lorries, carrying imports that we could make just as well ourselves, thundered by on their way from the docks to the motorway network. Sporty saloons rocketed past with complete disregard for the speed limit. Oddlights maintained his station, neither gaining nor falling back. I drifted into the slow lane and dropped speed slightly. So did he.

He was still behind me half an hour later as we approached the junction with the A1 There is a large service centre there. ‘Let’s check the price of the petrol,’ I said, swinging into the slip road without signalling.

The exit I needed was at four on the clockface, over threequarters of the way round the roundabout. I crept across the forecourt, past the pumps, eyes fixed on my mirrors. A black saloon followed me in and paused in the entrance. The harsh lights of the station reflected off the chrome strip surrounding the familiar shape of a BMW radiator.

‘Too expensive,’ I decided, out loud, and steered towards the exit. So did the BMW, and as his headlights swung my way the nearside one dazzled me. There was no doubt about it: we were being followed.

I hit the motorway at about eighty and pulled straight across into the fast lane. This time he kept closer. I deliberately hadn’t brought the mobile phone, and cursed my stupidity. Traffic wasn’t heavy, but there was plenty about. Two miles from Junction 281 saw a lorry well ahead signalling that he was pulling across into the middle lane, and a VW Polo in that lane started to move over in front of me.

I blazed my full beams at him, intimidating him out of the manoeuvre. His brake-lights came on and I streaked by him. In my mirror I saw the Polo pull across behind me, blocking the fast lane until after he’d overtaken the lorry. I drifted back into the middle lane and when the lorry was between me and my pursuers I put my right foot down to the floor, with the accelerator pedal firmly beneath it.

The Jag set off like the second stage of a Saturn V booster kicking in, the boom of the exhaust filling the cab. Annabelle glanced across at me.

‘Just giving the old girl a quick burst,’ I told her as I flicked the headlights off. I didn’t have an excuse for doing it in the dark – maybe I’m shy.

We flew past the Junction half-mile board at about a hundred and thirty, with me deciding that this was plenty fast enough. There was no traffic in the slow lane, so I slotted across into it. We dropped into the slip road at over the ton, a prayer on my lips and a foot hard on the brakes. Two cars were waiting, side by side, for the roundabout to clear. A lorry glided across in front of them and their brake-lights went out as they prepared to move off. I shot through on the left, on the hard shoulder, and had vanished round the island before they could say ‘UFO!’

The road led into Leeds, but it looked as if the BMW had overshot the turn-off. Just to make sure I took a few lefts, tyres squealing, into an estate of terraced houses and parked outside a kebab takeaway that was serving the last customer of the night.

‘Made it,’ I said, pulling the handbrake on. ‘I was afraid they’d be closed.’

Reports, reports, reports; that’s what it’s all about. I’ve instilled it into the men to write everything down – not just the facts that seem relevant at the time, but every other detail they can think of. If a pigeon bombs
the witness while you are talking to him, put it in the report. Somewhere along the line someone might notice a man with pigeonshit on his shoulder. And it’s a strange phenomenon, but courts tend to believe anything that is read out, but are doubtful if it comes from the witness’s memory. Writing reports takes up an awful lot of time, unfortunately.

I wrote a long one to Fearnside, all about the fire and the chase. I enclosed Fin 23 and Fin 33 expenses forms and devoted the last chapter to explaining them. I imagined some little man in a windowless office allowing the ghetto-blaster to pass, but drawing a line through my electric blanket. After that I read everything on my desk about Nicola’s murder, but didn’t learn much.

I’d skipped the morning meeting to sew up the loose ends of the drugs case and ring the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Centre at Swansea, but now I was free to concentrate on catching Nicola’s killer. I’d asked the DVLC to put a stop on the Jaguar number. That meant that if anyone rang enquiring about my address, they would be politely referred to the Police Liaison Officer. At just after nine o’clock the others started to wander in from the meeting.

Nigel was in earnest conversation with a DCI from Liverpool called Trevor Peacock and his DS. They’d taken the Harold Hurst enquiry off us. Peacock was built like a council skip, but he shook hands like a cocker spaniel. I suspected that this was deliberate, having crushed a few fingers in the past.

‘Hello, Trevor,’ I said. ‘What are you doing here?’ I think he’d have preferred me to call him Chief Inspector, which was why I addressed him as Trevor at every available opportunity.

‘If you came to the meetings you’d know,’ he replied, smiling, but he meant it.

‘Sorry about that. I had a few loose ends to tie up with N-CIS.’ Advantage Priest.

Nigel butted in. ‘I’ll fill in Mr Priest,’ he volunteered, ‘if you want to be on your way …’

‘That’s OK,’ he replied. ‘If we go over it enough times it might start to make sense to my small brain. It’s a complicated story.’

‘You mean, he’s struck before?’

‘’Fraid so. The sample he kindly left inside Nicola was a perfect match with one we found in the dead prostitute in early January. The one wearing Marina Norris’s wristwatch. That’s, what – over three months ago. Same MO: strangled first, then raped. Incidentally, it’s the first match we’ve had from the data bank; looks like it’s starting to produce the goods. So Nicola is linked to the murdered prostitute by a DNA sample and the prossie is linked to Mrs Norris by the watch.’

Nigel said: ‘And Mrs Norris’s husband made the cigarettes that were hijacked, and the driver was shot with the same gun that killed Harold Hurst.’

‘In other words,’ I declared, ‘the same gang hijacked the cigs, kidnapped Mrs Norris and murdered her chauffeur, strangled the prostitute and killed poor
Nicola. We’re looking for a necromaniac with a smoking problem. I wonder if there’s a gene for that?’

‘We can’t be sure Mrs Norris was kidnapped,’ Peacock said.

‘True,’ I conceded.

The Sergeant decided to have his say. ‘Don’t forget the gun has also been used in Northern Ireland, back in 1988.’

Nigel excused himself, to deploy the troops, leaving me with the DCI and DS from Liverpool. I suggested having a brew in the canteen, and they agreed. When we were settled, with mugs of tea and toasted currant teacake for me, bacon sandwiches for them, I said: ‘Do you think there is an IRA link, then – turning their skills to something more profitable? Or the other lot, maybe?’

Trevor nodded. ‘The so-called Loyalists? It’s a strong possibility. We’ve sent the files to the appropriate people – Special Branch, RUC – but they haven’t told us much.’

‘Then there’s our own side,’ the DS said. ‘We’ve plenty of disillusioned ex-Army on the streets. They have the skills, too, and a lot of them have difficulties when they’re thrown back on Civvy Street.’

‘That gives you plenty to go at. And think – up to this morning we thought we were looking for some psychopath who’d just discovered what makes the world go round and who lives locally.’

‘’Fraid not, Charlie,’ Trevor said. ‘We’re looking for
a gang of professionals, with some good contacts. It just happens that one of them is a psycho. Maybe he’ll lead us to the rest.’

‘I’d prefer it if they led us to him.’

‘Yeah, that would be better, but he’s the one who’s making all the mistakes.’

I spent the rest of the day reading the reports on the other murders and the hijack, and discussing them with Gilbert and Nigel. Hijacks are usually inside jobs, so it might be useful to know of any employees of the transport company who had links with the Army – a lot of ex-soldiers become lorry drivers – or with Northern Ireland. Or who had criminal records, or took days off at the appropriate times, or whose eyes were too close together. No doubt Peacock would be handling all that.

Our end of the investigation was concentrated on Nicola’s last movements, and trying to learn of any strangers in town on the Friday in question. Late in the afternoon I received a phone call from Jean, the DC in Bristol.

‘Good news, Mr Priest,’ she told me. ‘Pauline came in about an hour ago, with her husband, Leon. She’s made a full statement incriminating her stepfather, so you’ll be able to pull him in as soon as you receive it.’

I’d enjoy doing that. Annabelle had invited me round for what she called vegetarian chilli con carne, so I left early and called at the florists on the way. She’d guessed we were being followed the night before, and
was frightened, although I suspected that she was just a little bit excited by the chase. I’d driven straight to my house and taken her home in the Cavalier. She wouldn’t stay the night with me. I’d handled the whole thing badly, but perhaps some flowers would make amends. I selected a small bunch of fuchsias that looked just right. As I was fumbling for the money I noticed the Interflora poster and said to the girl behind the counter: ‘I’d like to send a bouquet to someone else, too, but I don’t know the address. If I pay for them now, could I phone it to you in the morning?’

‘Of course, sir, no problem.’ She started to fill in the appropriate order form. ‘Who shall we say they are from?’

‘Er, leave that blank, please.’

‘And what message would you like?’

‘Er, no message,’ I said, adding: ‘They’re for a lady in Bristol,’ as if it explained everything.

As soon as I’d had a chance to have a good think about the case, I rang DCI Peacock and had a long chat with him. We’d come into it late, and were looking at things in reverse order. I needed some clarification.

‘So presumably the first episode, from your point of view, was when we circulated details of the body we’d found. Harold Hurst’s,’ I said.

‘Well, before that,’ he replied, ‘Hurst’s wife had walked into her local nick and said that her husband hadn’t come home the night before. We did nothing, as
per, until she came in again the next day and became hysterical. Then we received your notification about the unidentified body and things fell into place.’

‘Have you talked to Norris?’

‘Yeah, a couple of times. He was quite open about things, more or less repeated what I’d read in your reports. Said their relationship was going downhill; she had a boyfriend, but he didn’t know who; thought she’d walked out on him. He wasn’t exactly cut up about it, and assured us there was nothing going off between her and the chauffeur.’

‘Still no ransom notes?’

‘He says not.’

‘Do you think he would have enough day-to-day knowledge to be the inside man on the cigs hijack?’

‘You’ve a wicked mind, Charlie. He probably would have. He was a hands-on employer, the worst kind. Knew everything about everything and kept them all on their toes by working all hours and expecting everyone else to do the same.’

‘I used to be like that,’ I confessed.

‘Yeah, me too. That’s why they all love me.’

‘And what about Hurst? How much did he know?’

‘Good question. He took the Roller into the lorry depot nearly every day and washed it. Nobody is saying they ever saw him speak to anyone, though, and we can’t find any links with other employees. He led a quiet life.’

Norris had no money worries by normal standards, but he was on a different planet to anyone else I knew.
He was a ladies’ man, but it was all hearsay, no names. I asked DCI Peacock if he had any objections to my straying into his patch and asking a few questions of my own.

‘What have you in mind?’ he asked warily.

‘Well, to tell the truth, I’d like another go at the manager of the department store – Town & County – where his wife was last seen. And the security staff. A bit more background about Norris himself might be useful, too. I might pick up something new, maybe only a different nuance. You know how it is.’

‘OK, be my guest, but keep us informed. And I’d like you to keep away from Norris himself. He knows more than he’s admitting, but he’s a crafty bird. Leave him to us, please. Mind you, he’s in America at the moment, so you’ll have to, unless your expenses allowance is better than mine.’

‘You’d never believe me, Trevor, you’d never believe me. I’ll keep you informed.’

I wrote down various addresses and drove over the Pennines into Lancashire – or should I say Greater Manchester and Merseyside? Injun country.

First stop was Norris’s palatial mansion in Lymm. The boundary wall and the electrically operated front gate looked impressive, but that was as far as I got. A motor mower was buzzing away inside, but I leant on the bell and shouted into the phone to no avail. A month ago I would have climbed over the wall, but I resisted the temptation. I was wearing decent trousers,
all part of my new tidy-at-work image. Next time I’d come in jeans and trainers.

At least Town & County would be open, unless Thursday was half-day closing. I risked it, and was lucky. They probably stayed open on Christmas Day. The manager’s secretary asked me if I would like a coffee and this time I said: ‘Yes, please.’

He greeted me like a longlost cousin and invited me to sit down. No doubt he was hoping to learn some titbit that he could take home to his family to revive the sagging saga of his boss’s wife. If I didn’t disappoint him maybe he’d open up.

‘Thanks for seeing me again,’ I told him.

‘Any time, Inspector. We were beginning to think that the trail had gone cold.’

‘Lukewarm,’ I replied, ‘until now. Last week, a
fifteen-year
-old girl was murdered in Heckley. Incidentally, that’s where Harold Hurst’s body was found. You may have read about it in the papers?’

He nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘It was a particularly vicious crime. You may also know that we recently started a data bank for DNA samples. Well, it’s beginning to show dividends. Samples from Nicola’s body indirectly link her killer with the person who killed Mrs Norris’s chauffeur. We are working in cooperation with Liverpool police, of course, and I know you have gone over everything with them, but I hope you don’t mind answering a few questions for me.’

He leant forward, interested. ‘Certainly, Inspector,’ he replied.

‘How well did you know Harold Hurst?’ I asked.

‘Hardly at all. I didn’t know his second name until after he was dead. I’d ridden with him a couple of times and we’d chatted about our families. Mr Norris would sometimes invite me over to Lymm for a meeting, and he’d send the Roller. He was like that.’ He smiled at the memory.

I said: ‘You sound as if you like Norris.’

‘He’s OK. Super-efficient, but you know where you are with him. You hear horror stories about American businessmen, but he seems keen to retain the family atmosphere we have amongst the staff. We hadn’t expected that.’ His cheeks were creased with amusement.

‘What’s so funny?’ I asked.

Coffee and biscuits arrived. I’d forgotten to ask for it without milk. ‘About a week before she vanished,’ the manager said, ‘Norris came in and the first thing he noticed was that we’d moved one of the security cameras. The ground-floor one. We’d redirected it so you could see the pavement outside the front door. He said: “Hey! Now you’ll be able to see when Marina’s paying you a surprise visit.” We didn’t tell him that that was exactly why we’d moved the camera, but I think he’d guessed.’