Bloody Reckoning Page 10

  I was half expecting an empty shell, or rotting floorboards covered in cobwebs, but the interior wasn’t in too bad a shape. We stepped into a large antechamber covered in dust, without furniture or fittings. No electricity or plumbing, so I’d have to prepare properly. I’d liked to have established an observation post immediately, but I didn’t want to stumble around in the gloom with Siân in tow. I stamped on the floor to double-check it was firm. The ceiling appeared solid as well, so I had little else to worry about. The lock could’ve done with some oil, but the key worked, and I’d be able to set up camp quickly enough later on.

  “That’ll do for now.”

  We went back out to the lane, and I locked the door. We walked to the edge of the factory. There was a small gap between it and the office conversion, and the remains of the legend ‘Harvey-Scruton Ltd’ were just visible on the cracked cement. There was someone sitting at a desk behind one of the windows next door, so I kept out of sight. I looked down the lane to Micklegate and stood for a minute. There was a row of eight windows of different shapes and sizes on the first floor of the factory, all without mesh.

  “What are you doing?” asked Siân.

  “I’m trying to work out which of those windows will give me the best view down to that door.”

  “I’d go for the second from the end.”

  *

  At half-past eight that night I was sitting on an upended plastic crate looking out through the very same window at a blue door bathed in the light of a half-moon. It hadn’t opened in the last hour and a half, and probably wouldn’t in the next – if ever. Siân had been right, and there appeared to be a courtyard of sorts behind the wall, although I wasn’t high up enough to look into it. All I could see was a space between the top of the wall and another brick building beyond. Unfortunately, there was no way to improve my view, short of climbing on the roof.

  Except for a few spiders I could see, and a rat or two I could hear, I was completely alone. The Canon was in a pouch around my neck, and I’d decided against a balaclava in favour of a beanie and turned-up collar. I’d wiped one of the square panes clean of dust, which was essential if I was going to take any photos Mac could use, but of concern in case it was noticed. On the floor were two cans of Red Bull, two bottles of strawberry-flavoured mineral water, a couple of chicken and bacon sandwiches, a large bag of peanut M&Ms, a Maglite torch, and an empty two-litre bottle to hold my urine.

  In case of emergency, I’d plotted a route out the back which – after vaulting two walls – would bring me to a courtyard from where I could reach Tanner Row and escape down to George Hudson Street. The latter was full of night clubs and late night eateries, and right next to the closest York can boast to a bus station. There’d be plenty of people to lose myself amongst. Everything except the camera and Maglite would be staying, so a hasty exit wouldn’t be a problem. In addition, I wouldn’t be carrying a bag or Bergen that would draw attention to me. The Maglite was of the two cell variety, so it was small enough to conceal in my jacket, but big enough to use as a makeshift weapon.

  I was comfortable, but unhappy. Aside from the prospect of staring at a door that didn’t open for the next five hours, I hadn’t heard from Bell. That was a big problem. If he hadn’t bothered to call me within twenty-four hours of the death of one of his minions, then I didn’t expect to hear from him at all. I didn’t have a Plan B for securing an audience, and was at a loss as to how to proceed. I needed to see him. Until I stood face to face with Bell I had no way of knowing what the situation was with Siân, and what he was going to want in return for her freedom.

  I was mulling over my options when I felt my phone vibrate. It was Lawson.

  “Hello, Alex.”

  “What do you want?”

  I wasn’t in the mood for him, and talking hurt my jaw. “A call back in less than five hours when I say ASAP, for starters.”

  “I was interviewing Cowan, is that all right?”

  “Did you ask her about Marillier?” I asked.

  “Of course I fucking didn’t. He’s not been identified as one of the victims.”

  “He is.”

  “How do you know?”

  “What makes you think he isn’t?” I replied.

  “Christ, I’m wondering why I got you into this in the first place. Three squaddies shot dead and one beaten to death with a spade. There’s a little clue called modus operandi us coppers use, you may have heard of it. It’s not difficult, Hutt.”

  “He was shot first.”

  “You’re talking about the groove in his skull?”

  “Yeah.”

  Lawson’s tone changed. “I thought it was worth another look, but the Hampshire detectives weren’t interested at the time.”

  “They didn’t follow the pathologist’s recommendation for an examination by a forensic anthropologist. But they didn’t have three other dead soldiers on their hands, and already had a cause of death. They were either sloppy or on a tight budget. I think Marillier’s death in Crab Wood was the same as the other three victims, except that our man’s aim was off. Perhaps Marillier moved at the last minute or perhaps the suspect’s hand was shaking with it being the first kill. The bullet penetrates the scalp, hits the skull at a strange angle, and follows the curve of the cranium until it exits the scalp again –”

  Lawson interrupted: “Let me guess, this is the same magic bullet that killed Kennedy, wounded Connally, and went through fifteen inches of skin, four inches of rib, and a radius bone in two different people?”

  “I don’t know who killed Kennedy, but I’ve seen a bullet do exactly what I’ve described. The one I saw entered the back of the skull, moved around the temple, and popped out of the feller’s forehead. The suspect was running at the time and the shot didn’t even slow him down. Marillier’s skull was badly damaged by foxes, wasn’t it?”

  “They managed to dig up his head and neck, but not the rest. Don’t know why. But yes, foxes spent a month or more gnawing the flesh off his face and head, probably the odd dog as well.”

  “Then that’s it, that’s what happened. When the bullet didn’t kill Marillier, the suspect panicked and attacked him with the entrenching tool, cracking his skull and finishing him off. Then back to business as usual. You know Vaughan and Cowan were instructors at the ATR at the time?” I said.

  “Of course I fucking know. Marillier was also a bodybuilder, so I think we can rule out Cowan if what you’re saying is true.”

  “No, we can’t. Marillier would have been disorientated, probably dazed, perhaps even semi-conscious. Cowan’s an athlete, she plays hockey –”

  “You just told me that the muppet you saw didn’t even stop running when he was shot in the head, so make your mind up.”

  I sighed. “The suspect I saw was in the middle of a firefight, his adrenalin pumping. Marillier was thinking with his cock. Forget it if you want, but I need some more help with Bell.”

  “I’ve already told you –”

  “Just his PNC file and anything else useful you might have on him.”

  “You think I’ve got time for that bollocks!”

  I was fuming, but I couldn’t afford to lose my temper. “I don’t want to bring him to trial, I just want to know where I can find him, who he associates with, that sort of thing. Whatever you can get by the weekend. I’ll come around and pick it up tomorrow night.”

  “I’ll drop it off in your postbox, but this is a liberty. Nine o’clock, Sunday evening, my place. Clear?”

  “Who the fuck –”

  I never found out who he thought he was to give me orders because the bastard hung up. I grit my teeth, put the phone away, and snarled at the blue door in the brick wall.

  The blue door which remained closed and in which the occasional passers-by displayed absolutely no interest.

  I removed camera and IR filter from their respective coverings, set the plastic bag on the windowsill, and placed the filter on top of it. Then I switched the camera on, found what I imag
ined would be the correct zoom, and eased the filter over it. I took a photo just to make sure it all worked and nothing flashed, and then removed the filter. I sat and looked at my watch. Exactly three minutes later, the camera switched itself off, and went into standby mode. This entailed the telescopic lens retreating back into the box, so I didn’t want it to happen when the filter was on in case I damaged something. Once the camera was on standby, the only way to take a photo was to switch it off and then back on, an operation which took thirty seconds and probably used a lot of battery.

  I swore softly to myself. Even if someone actually turned up, I had visions of failing to capture a single useful image. I cursed Mac for no reason other than that it made me feel slightly better.

  Nine o’clock came and went. I drank a Red Bull and ate half of the first sandwich. Red Bull always makes me feel slightly nauseous, but it does keep me awake. I decided against the second half of the sandwich and tried to wash away the Red Bull taste with the flavoured water.

  It was going to be a long night.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Less than two minutes after I’d resigned myself to an uneventful night, a man in a mackintosh raincoat knocked on the blue door. Time-check: 21:11. Maybe there was something going on after all. I was startled to see the door actually opened. I caught a brief glimpse of another man, dressed in black, before the guest entered. A balding, paunchy, middle-aged man in a mac. Talk about a cliché. Nonetheless, it appeared the O Club was in fact open for business. I decided to photograph the next guest for practice. A few minutes later, a couple arrived, both wearing long leather overcoats far too warm for a spring evening. I powered up the camera, slipped on the filter…by the time I was ready they were inside, the door shut.

  I was only a few metres away from the door, so I couldn’t risk opening a window, which meant I could only hear people arrive a second or two before I saw them. Without any early warning system, I was unlikely to catch Strong on camera if and when he arrived. My only option was therefore to keep the Canon switched on, fiddle with it every three minutes to stop it going into standby, and hope Strong turned up before the battery died. At least that way I could keep the filter in place. I cursed Mac some more and snapped the next group of guests, a threesome clad in a mixture of leather and PVC.

  In the next forty minutes, about thirty people arrived. There was plenty of leather, PVC, metal studs, boots of varying lengths, fishnet stockings, stiletto heels, dog collars, and chains. Most of the members covered up with coats, although a few of the men were dressed as if for a smart-casual function. One of these was Captain Strong, when he arrived at ten to ten. I’d been hoping to catch him in fishnets and stilettos, but no such luck.

  I’d met him once before, in the Helmand three years ago, where we’d exchanged unpleasantries while Shabs and I were hunting a suspect in his patrol area. He’d told me to be careful to keep out of his sights. I had, but now he was in mine, I lined him up through the viewfinder. He was tall and slim, with a cruel mouth and a jagged scar on his chin. I focused and pressed the button. Once, twice. The door opened and he turned slightly to his left as he stepped in, allowing me a profile of his face for my third shot. Mac thought Strong was a rapist and a murderer, but every case against him had collapsed. Hopefully these photos would help the next case – Mac was positive there would be a next case.

  The Red Bull ran out at half-ten, the Canon’s battery at eleven, and my sandwiches at midnight. I could have used the flat battery as an excuse to go home, but I thought I owed it to Mac to at least see what time Strong left. I assumed he was living in Catterick Garrison, in which case he’d have come by car unless he was staying the night somewhere. I waited patiently, munching on the M&Ms until I discovered that I’d troughed through the whole bag shortly before one o’clock. By this stage I’d seen around forty-five people enter the blue door and twenty or so leave. Whatever was happening in there – and I really didn’t want to know – probably had a while to go yet.

  I was still lamenting the loss of the chocolate-covered peanuts when Strong emerged. I’d hoped he might come out in a nappy, or covered in candle wax, or on all fours at the end of someone’s dog chain, but no luck there either. When it came to S&M I had no doubt Strong was firmly in the ‘S’ camp. Where O Club members probably played at it, Strong was the real deal, a sadist, a misogynist, and a killer. He stepped out with another man, also dressed in a jacket and trousers, and the two of them walked down Barker Lane towards Micklegate.

  It was worth the wait. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

  I had a last slug of water, then trotted downstairs with the assistance of the Maglite. I put the torch and my beanie in my jacket pocket, adjusted my collar, and listened. No noise. I opened the door, looked out, and stepped into the lane. Strong and his companion were already approaching Micklegate. I locked the door as quietly as possible and marched after them, making it past the blue door without it opening. My quarry turned right, heading up towards Micklegate bar. I picked up my pace as soon as they were out of sight. I panicked for a second when I reached the road, but then I saw they’d crossed over, and were walking past Holy Trinity Church. I kept on my side so as not to be obvious.

  They stopped at Priory Lane and turned to face each other.

  I slowed right down and weaved a little, as if I’d had one too many.

  Bavister extended his hand to Strong and the two of them shook.

  Chas was looking remarkably chipper for a man who was being tried by General Court Martial and a suspect in three homicide inquiries. His career and his liberty were both in jeopardy, but he was quite openly attending an S&M club. Until he’d walked out that blue door, I’d thought he was too obvious a culprit for the murders. While the killer presumably was a psychopath, he was not a homicidal maniac: he’d only evaded capture by careful planning and execution. The sensible thing for Bavister to do would’ve been to keep a low profile until the court martial was over. He’d done exactly the opposite. He’d married his wealthy fiancée in a wedding announced in The Times, and let the press know that he was flying out to one of Kenya’s most exclusive resorts for his honeymoon. Now it seemed that contrary to Mac’s information, he’d continued to run the O Club. Had he continued to stalk and murder young male soldiers as well?

  The man I was watching appeared arrogant enough for anything.

  Bavister walked down Priory Lane and Strong resumed his progress up Micklegate. I followed Strong, but caught a glimpse of Bavister climbing into an SUV as I passed. I guessed Strong was heading towards the car park in Nunnery Lane. He walked through one of the stone arches next to the tower of Micklegate bar, past the Punch Bowl pub, and turned left as predicted. There was no good reason to follow him, but I didn’t let that stop me. Perhaps I hoped for a second encounter in the car park, or perhaps it was merely my quickest way home. Maybe it was a bit of both.

  Strong was about thirty metres in front of me when I turned into Nunnery Lane, walking alongside the low brick wall that bordered the parking lot. On the other side of the car park, the grassy rampart supported the low parapet of the walls. There were only three cars there at this time of the morning. Shortly before he reached the recycling bins next to the entrance, Strong hopped over the wall and headed for a gunmetal Volvo. I kept walking, and kept my eyes front. A potential meeting at the exit to the car park was avoided when he took a while to start his car. I was already turning the corner for Bishopgate, following the line of the rampart, when the Volvo sped past.

  I carried on around the walls, turning off into Skeldergate just before the bridge. I rang Mac and left a message for him as I walked. I entered the flat as quietly as possible, then checked on Siân. I was pleased to see she was asleep, despite her earlier nap. It was three o’clock before I drifted off myself. There was still no word from Bell and if I couldn’t deal with him, any improvements in Siân’s mental or physical health were likely to be temporary. Very temporary. I had only one option left and it was so lame, I didn’
t dare contemplate it for too long.

  *

  I rose early and went to the gym across the road, where I took out some of my frustration on a mid-level circuit. I was back in time for breakfast with Siân, before driving her to the doctor’s surgery. I was prepared to go in with her if she wanted, but she didn’t ask, so I stayed in the waiting room. She looked a little more composed when she returned. She’d been advised to make sure she had at least three meals a day, eat plenty of carbohydrates, and given a list of recommended vitamin supplements. She went through them in the car as I drove to the nearby Tesco, but we’d already bought the lot on Monday. The doctor wanted to see her again in a month in order to gauge her progress. He’d told her it would be at least three months before she recovered her health completely. After we’d stocked up on groceries and filled up with petrol, we went back to the flat.

  I felt guilty about leaving Siân alone yet again, but I had to try and meet Bell. We had a brief chat about his legitimate business, Big Ideas Property, while I dressed in a suit and tie. I felt even more guilty when I saw Siân’s agitation at the prospect of my unannounced arrival at Bell’s workplace. She waved off my apologies, and agreed not to open the door to anyone or go out until I returned. I made sure she locked it behind me and then set off for Leeds, heading for Quarry Hill again.

  I parked and walked across the city centre to City Square, arriving at exactly noon, possibly the worst time of the day for my visit. The square is situated next to the main railway station, the centre of a panorama consisting of the Portland stone façade of the Queens Hotel, a converted Victorian post office complete with clock tower, and the contemporary circular tower of 1 City Square. I walked up Wellington Street, across from the bronze statue of Edward of Woodstock, AKA the Black Prince, resplendent on horseback. The square itself was full of people walking to and from the station, and diners having an alfresco lunch. I crossed over to the office block, my mood unaltered by the pleasant scenery.