Nick Oldham - Backlash

One Sunday newspaper, the Mail , was on the floor by the sofa, its separate sections spread around. Another, the Telegraph , was on a chair, having obviously been opened and read. Then it hit him, yet it seemed so pathetic and minor that it did not seem enough but, he tried to assure himself, it was the little, inconsequential things that often solved murders. He pointed at the newspaper on the coffee table. The Sunday Times . ‘That’s it,’ he declared. ‘I think.’

‘Better explain yourself,’ Donaldson cut in.

‘OK. The Gravesons have two friends round on a Sunday morning, yeah?’ Nods. ‘They doss about. Chat. Have brunch. Read the newspapers?’ Nods again. Henry jabbed his finger towards the newspapers in disarray. ‘These ones look like they’ve been read,’ he said, trying to work out what message he was trying to get across. ‘Yet the Sunday Times here looks almost pristine. Why?’

‘Tidy people?’ suggested Makin.

‘Who only tidy up one out of three newspapers?’ Henry was as frustrated with the process as anyone else in the room. ‘It just doesn’t sit right with me. Why do two newspapers look as though they’ve been read and one doesn’t?’ He addressed Harrison. ‘Is it possible for you, or me, to talk to those friends now? See if they recall reading the Sunday Times , see if they remember anything at all, what they did with it. Did they refold it?’

‘I’ll do it now.’ The DI pulled his mobile phone out from his jacket and went out of the house to get a good signal.

Henry sat on the sofa and looked down at the newspaper which had attracted his attention. He did not touch it. Then he smiled at Makin and Donaldson. ‘Nice here, innit?’

Makin shivered. ‘Gives me the creeps.’

‘It’s spooky,’ Donaldson agreed. ‘Feels like walking through spiders’ webs or ectoplasm.’

‘I think the bastard sat here and read the newspaper then folded it up nice and neat. Because he’s a pretty neat operator. The bodies he leaves are a mess, but everything else is neatly tidied up. No loose ends. He’s very in control of everything.’

‘And if he did read a newspaper, so what?’ Makin asked.

‘Then the fingerprint people go through every single page and pick off any fingerprints and smudges they find, because maybe the guy made a mistake here.’

Makin hid a look of disappointment. ‘Bit thin, isn’t it?’

Henry smiled. ‘Wedges have thin ends.’

Harrison returned. ‘Just spoke to one of the Gravesons’ friends. They read all the newspapers and when they left they were pretty much scattered around.’

‘I won’t say “bingo” yet,’ Henry said, ‘because he probably wore gloves, but can you get your SOCO people down here now, please?’

Through the slit Gill had kindly cut in the tape covering her mouth, Roscoe said, ‘I’m sorry.’

Gill had calmed down. Roscoe wanted to keep him sweet. Did not want to do anything further to upset him. Wetting and soiling herself had been bad enough. The smell was atrocious, the discomfort unpleasant, but she was past caring. That was unimportant. Staying alive and breaking free by whatever means were what mattered now.

‘What was that?’ he teased.

‘Sorry — so sorry.’

‘You messy bitch.’ Gill shook his head sadly. ‘You’re the second one who’s done that to me. I mean, really, it just confirms everything about females, doesn’t it?’

As he talked he moved around the room. Through a minute break in the tape over her eyes, Roscoe could see a chink of light, nothing more.

‘I mean, what the fuck, eh? What the fuck, for example, are you doing pretending to be a detective inspector? That is a man’s job. It’s not something a woman should even be contemplating. Being a cop is man’s work. White man’s work, at that. I mean, what member of the public would want a woman or a blackie turning up at their door? No one in their right minds. They want to see healthy, fit, big white guys. Not Pakis or split-arses.’

Roscoe listened to his ravings. The final phrase he used sent a message to her. ‘Split-arses’ was a derogatory phrase, used very little now, to describe policewomen. She wasn’t aware of any other profession which used the term.

‘Are you a policeman?’ she asked.

Gill stopped. He did not respond for a few moments. ‘Why ask that?’ he said suspiciously.

‘Because of what you just said — split-arses.’

‘Hm. No. Good try, detective.’

Something in the way he had responded made Roscoe wonder if she had hit a nerve.

‘So why me? Where do I fit in?’

‘You don’t fit in. You just came along and I reacted. Otherwise I’d now be sitting in a cell, contemplating suicide.’

‘Where do the other people you’ve murdered fit in?’

‘Good question — and it sounds grand, this, but it’s all part of the master plan. It’s like a big chessboard, except it’s for real. I’m with white, of course. And there are little battles going on all over the field. Pawn takes pawn. In this real world, pawn kills pawn. I kill people, the black team. Part of a strategy. Guerrilla warfare. A strike here, a strike there, then withdraw. But this is the week when it all changes. Up to now I’ve been picking them off one by one. The ones who have played their part in the downfall of the fabric of British society. Yes, I’m doing this for the sake of the country, Britain, the heritage.’

‘For Britain? You’re murdering people for Britain?’ Roscoe was losing it again as she had to listen to the ranting of a mad man.

‘Yes,’ he said in total belief. ‘I’m a patriot. I’m going to be part of a movement that saves this country from itself and restores its pride.’

The sea can never be trusted. Sometimes it will keep its victims to itself and they will never be found, sometimes it will return them immediately and other times it will play with them like a cat with its prey, tossing them up, reclaiming them, having fun.

In the case of the body which had been bundled dead over the sea wall, for reasons known only to itself the sea decided to deposit him in almost the exact same spot from which it had taken him when offered. The body was found by a man walking his dog along central beach. The body was wrapped around the foot of one of the stanchions of Central Pier.

There was nothing that could be done to speed up the process. A scenes-of-crime officer was at the house within fifteen minutes, ready to roll. With gloved hands she began to leaf through the newspaper but found nothing to excite or interest. No smudges, nothing. The Sunday Times magazine was more interesting and when she held the back page up to the light there were some clear prints in the black ink of an advertisement for an Alfa Romeo car. She found other prints throughout the magazine on its shiny surface and carefully lifted and transferred them onto glass plates, logging each one carefully.

Henry watched, desperate for her to get a move on. He also knew that if he pushed her she would either do a poor job or would fall out with him. He wanted neither to happen. Outwardly, therefore, he remained patient. Inwardly he was paddling like a demented duck.

After finishing with the magazine, she bagged it up, logged it and placed it with the prints inside her bag of tricks.

‘I’ll take them straight to fingerprints,’ she said. ‘They’ll be expecting me.’

‘And you might as well head off back to sunny Blackpool,’ Harrison said. ‘I’d love to offer you my hospitality but I do have a murder inquiry to run.’

‘Understood. Thanks for everything,’ Henry said dully, wondering if this had all been a waste of time and effort. Do killers sit down and read newspapers? He kept on the positive side by telling himself that if someone can kill another person, in itself a very weird thing, they are capable of doing anything. ‘We’ll tootle back.’ He looked at Donaldson. ‘And to kill a bit of time, maybe we can start rattling those cages we were talking about.’