Felicity Young - An Easeful Death

‘Yes, yes, of course, leave that to me.’ Baggly took a sip of coffee and regarded Monty with scepticism. ‘This case seems to be lurching from bad to worse. How’s your witch doctor going? Has he finished consulting his crystal ball yet?’

Monty stared right back at him. ‘I don’t think witch doctors use crystal balls, Sir.’

‘Don’t be a smart arse. You know what I mean.’

‘He’s at the scene with DS Hooper now. He hasn’t given us anything yet, but these things take time. The less we pressure him, the more likely he is to give us an accurate profile.’

‘It’s a waste of our resources if you ask me, especially for a single murder. They’re always on about spending cuts and then they foist this on me. The only reason I didn’t kick up a fuss was to get you off my back.’

‘Yes, you made that perfectly clear, Sir, but I still say it’s worth a try.’

‘He could be just sending us off on a wild goose chase.’

‘Well, we’re not chasing anything at the moment, we have nothing to lose.’ Monty paused for a moment, trying to choose the right words for what he had to say next. But there were none, so he cut to the chase. ‘I’d like your authorisation to reopen the KP murder cases.’

Baggly thumped the desk. ‘Did your ex-wife put you up to this?’

Monty didn’t flinch. ‘Michelle has nothing to do with it, though I do agree with her that there are similarities in the cases that should not be overlooked.’

‘Well, thank God you didn’t mention that to the press.’ Baggly’s voice dripped sarcasm like a cut lemon. He never seemed to tire of reminding Monty of his former indiscretion, though it never stopped him delegating press conferences when it suited.

‘You didn’t even work the KP murders, weren’t even in the country. What makes you think they might be linked?’

‘The posing of the bodies for one, but I’m not familiar with all the details.’ He decided not to mention Michelle’s allegations of a police cover-up. ‘I’ve only had a quick check of the archived files. I plan on signing them out and taking them home tonight so I can give them a thorough going over.’

Baggly fixed his gaze to the ceiling, almost speaking to himself. ‘We were lucky. We got egg over our faces on that one, but most of it fell away with the death of the chief suspect.’

‘Yes, that was very convenient, wasn’t it?’

‘I don’t like your tone, Inspector. Mistakes were made, heads rolled and now it’s over. The suspect died in a car accident.’

Monty fought to keep his voice even. ‘You can stop me from reopening the case, but you can’t stop me from accessing the files.’

The super ran a hand across his comb-over and looked back at Monty with a hard glint in his eye. ‘No, I suppose I can’t, but watch your step.’ He raised a pudgy finger, ‘If so much as a squeak gets out to the press you’ll find yourself walking on very thin ice.’ He paused. ‘Just remember what happened to Inspector Sbresni.’

Monty felt his face redden. The vacuous lump of whale blubber was threatening him. He clenched his jaw to stop himself from biting back. The super began to busy himself with papers on his desk. The meeting was over.

6

The killer’s hunting ground will most likely be located within his own comfort zone, either near where he lives or in another area he is familiar with.

De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil

A tinny bell sounded as Wayne and Barry stepped over the threshold of Sherman the German’s Hobbies and Collectables.

Barry spoke through the side of his mouth to Wayne. ‘You’d think our guy would have chosen one of the bigger chain stores for his purchase, somewhere he’d be more anonymous.’

‘Nah. You have to be registered and show ID to buy spray paint in the bigger outlets these days. It hampers the graffiti artists.’

They lapsed into silence as they took in their surroundings. Shelves bulging with untidy contents seemed to undulate up from the floor. A carefully placed electric fan made the model aeroplanes hanging from the ceiling rock languidly. On the walls, ocean liners and battleships sailed side by side on glassy seas. Whichever way you looked the effect was one of rippling movement. Wayne loosened his collar and closed his eyes for a moment, battling against a rising tide of motion sickness.

Barry seemed to have no such problem. He pointed to a display of sci-fi figures. ‘Hey, look! An original Star Wars Admiral Akbar!’ In two strides he was bending over the display and steaming up the glass of the cabinet with his breath.

‘Jesus Christ.’ Wayne looked to the heavens and wiped his sweaty palms over the thighs of his polyester bellbottoms. He turned when a man with unkempt shoulder-length hair and a beard clacked through a back entrance of glass beads.

The man pushed a pair of thick-rimmed glasses up the greasy bridge of his nose. His face fell when he realised who they were.

‘You must be the cops. Sherman said you might be coming round.’ His voice had the same watery grey tone as his T-shirt.

Wayne put out his hand, ‘Mr Thompson? I’m DS Wayne Pickering and this is DS Barry Snow.’ He tilted his head in Barry’s direction. Still absorbed in the Star Wars figures, Barry waved a greeting without looking up.

‘I spoke with Mr Sherman on the phone last night. Apparently you sold a large quantity of spray-on bronze fabric paint last Friday.’

Thompson responded with a nod and a grunt, giving Wayne the impression that if it hadn’t been for the conscientious Tom Sherman, they would never have got this lead in the first place.

Thompson hefted a cardboard box onto a space he’d cleared on the counter top and began sorting through boxes of model aeroplanes. Another blasé witness who watched too many TV cop shows , Wayne thought. If you had to talk to the cops at all, you had to be cool and impassive, and if possible carry on with your business while you were being questioned.

Wayne said, ‘Can you describe the man you sold the paint to?’

‘Tallish.’

‘Fat, thin?’

‘Kinda medium to tall build.’

‘Old, young?’

‘Middling, twenty to forty.’

‘Eyes?’

‘Sunglasses.’

‘Hair colour?’

‘Dunno. He was wearing a baseball cap.’

‘What colour hat? Did it have a logo?’

Thompson gave a shrug.

Jeez, this was like speaking to a pile of bricks. Wayne took a deep breath. Thompson turned around and began arranging the boxes on the shelf behind the counter. Wayne raised his voice, trying to penetrate the man’s back.

‘Can you describe what he was wearing?’

Thompson shrugged and looked back over his shoulder. ‘Jeans, I guess.’

Barry ambled over from the display cabinet to join them at the counter. He pointed to one of the aeroplane kits in Sherman’s hand. ‘I made that very Lancaster when I was a kid. You could hardly see it for glue, the props wouldn’t even turn.’

Thompson turned from the shelves and said to Wayne, ‘A yellow Eagles windcheater.’ Then to Barry he said, ‘It’s a difficult model for a young kid. You should have got your dad to help.’

‘Didn’t have one.’ Barry never ceased to surprise Wayne. Only the other day he was complaining about his miserly arsehole of a father.

‘That’s too bad,’ Thompson said.

‘Maybe I’ll have another go at it.’ Barry took out his wallet and handed over a twenty.

Thompson gave him the box and some change. ‘There’s glue in the box. Come back when you’re done and I’ll fix you up with some paint,’ he said.

Barry beamed back; it was the kind of smile a twelve-year-old would use to wangle money from his unsuspecting grandmother.