Last Gasp (12 page)

The man in the blue pin-stripe, and
with the distinguished-looking head of steel-grey hair turned to look down at
Carver, seated at the far end of the table. In the clipped tones Carver found
mildly irritating, he said, ‘For the sake of clarity, can I ask, whose decision
was it to make no arrests for what appear,
prima facie
, to be two
incidents of grievous bodily harm, if not attempted murder?’

Carver sighed and bowed his head so the table’s faded beech
veneer swam into view. Ninety minutes gone, and they were still going round in
circles. When he looked up, it was to find Spencer Wright, the Crown Prosecution
Service’s Deputy District Prosecuting Solicitor, still waiting, eyebrows
arched, expectantly.

When he spoke, Carver tried to keep the disappointment - and
impatience - out of his voice. ‘Like I’ve already said Spencer, it was my call.
I was there. I was happy I had enough facts to hand to make a judgement.’

Wright made a point of casting his gaze round the room, as
if it might gain him backing.

‘But by doing so, you prevented
anyone else from having a say. For all you knew, one of us may have felt that
under the circumstances, due process should have been followed. I’m sure I
don’t need to, but may I remind you of the fact that Kayleigh is still a
juvenile after all?’

Though stung, Carver was determined not to let himself be
goaded. He had enough on his plate. Right now his aim was to get those gathered
round the table to do what he needed them to do – endorse his decision and move
on. Sadly, grabbing Spencer Wright by the throat wouldn’t help. Checking to his
right, Carver threw a glance at Rita Arogundade, next to him. The expression on
her face - she was staring at Wright with a mixture of contempt and anger -
told him her thoughts were probably similar to his. More than any others of the
eight agency representatives comprising the Lee Family Project Steering Group,
Wright was the one who still seemed to have most difficulty with the principle
of rapid decision-making. God knows, but when they began, there was plenty of
evidence to show how red tape and bureaucracy was contributing to the family’s
problems. Instead of issues being resolved quickly, as needed, delay and
organisational dithering were encouraging the family to believe that ‘the
authorities’ weren’t only uninterested in their plight, but were in fact their
enemy. In truth, they weren’t wholly wrong. It was why the Joint Memorandum Of
Understanding that underpinned the project allowed for decisions to be made
outside the frameworks that would normally kick in when the family came to
notice. It was also why those seated around the table occupied relatively
senior positions within their organisations. After weeks and months and many
long, often fractious, meetings, most now accepted that by dealing with
problems straight away, even if a decision was later shown to be ‘wrong’, the
benefits outweighed the disadvantages. Six months on, there were definite signs
that trust between family members and the organisations in whose sides they had
long been a thorn, was growing. Things were actually getting done. And to its
credit, the family was beginning to take control of their lives in ways none of
the project group had ever seen before. It had taken a long time, but as the
most telling statistic kept showing, unauthorised school absences were down to single
figures. Carver made sure he kept his voice even when he replied to Wright’s
challenge.

‘You’re right, Spencer. I don’t need reminding. In fact it
was Kayleigh’s situation I had most in mind when I made my decision. If I’d
opted for a full-on investigation, we’d have had to remove her. That would have
been bad for her, and bad for the family. The family would have split down the
middle and everything we’ve achieved the past six months would have gone down
the toilet. As it is, they’ve all made up and things are back on track.’

But Wright wasn’t convinced. ‘I’m sorry, Jamie, but we’ve
only your say-so on that. How do we know-’

‘For fuck’s sake Spencer, give it a rest will you?’ All
heads turned to Rita. She looked ready to blow. ‘While you were playing golf,
or whatever it is you do weekends, I’ve been at Carnegie Avenue, mending fences
and building bridges. I was there as well, remember? And I can tell you,
Jamie’s dead right. If you want to turn the clock back to when we were all spending
half of our day dealing with problems coming out of twenty-five Carnegie Avenue,
then just veto Jamie’s decision and tell him to go back and run a full
investigation. But don’t forget, that would also involve arresting Stuart for
what he did to Paula. And possibly other members of the family as well. And
when that happens we may as well just pull the plug and go home.’

She stopped to cast her gaze around the table, making sure
to have eye contact with the six others present – two members having sent their
apologies. No one came back at her. Carver could tell Spencer wanted to, but
knew better. Not for the first time he thought on how Rita Arogundade would
make an excellent lawyer – or detective - had she chosen a different path.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘If no one’s
got anything else to say, can I suggest we take a vote, record the result then
piss off home. I’ve promised my Nigel I’ll do him a curry tonight.’

Leaving the Council Offices, Carver
lingered to let Rita catch up.

‘Thanks for that show of support.’

‘No need to thank me. Besides, you didn’t need my support.
You were right and everyone knows it apart from that dick-head. I just didn’t
want to see blood on the table. Had enough of that recently.’ She paused.
‘Something I need to mention though.’

‘Go on.’

‘You do know Kayleigh’s got a crush on you, don’t you?’

Carver stopped dead. ‘What?’

‘Might just be she sees you as the father figure Stuart
never was. Either way, you need to be aware of it. I’ve seen too many
professionals end up in trouble over young girls.’

Carver cast his mind back, remembering his most recent visits
to Carnegie Avenue, occasions when he’d seen her looking at him in a way he
suddenly realised he should have thought about more. He thought about the
feelings he had when he saw her doing her best to keep her family afloat. They
were the sort of protective, fatherly feelings most men would have when they
see a kid struggling through a difficult situation. Then his stomach flipped,
and suddenly he was scared.

‘Oh, fuck.’

‘That’s what I thought when I saw her looking at you the
other morning.’

Carver’s drive home took forty minutes. They passed in a
blur.

The next day the press was all over
everything, working themselves up to a frenzy that the Worshipper Killer had
claimed another victim. Even before Corinne Anderson, Carver’s plan was to call
the journalist, Jackson, and get him off his back. But now he felt a
face-to-face meeting would be better. Less risk of any, ‘misunderstandings’.
But inviting him into the station risked stoking rumours of the, ‘Courting
Media Attention Again’ variety. For that reason he arranged a meet in The
Causeway Inn, half-way between Warrington and Stockton Heath. A large,
traditional ale house and not a regular police haunt, The Causeway is the sort of
place you can easily get lost in.

Jackson was already there, seated at a table at the back, a
pint of Carver’s favourite Bombardier next to his own Balvenie. After
exchanging stiff-ish greetings, Carver sat down, took a long swig and gave the
man across the table a hard look that said,
Listen closely
.

To his credit, Jackson, leaned forward to give Carver his
full attention. Younger than Carver by several years and slightly built, he was
wearing the same mismatched grey, herring-bone jacket and jeans Carver
remembered. He also still sported the designer-stubble Carver saw as part of
the, ‘who-gives-a-shit crumpled look’ Jackson liked to effect. Carver had
learned long ago not to be lulled by it all.

‘Before we start, let’s get a couple of things straight,’
Carver said. ‘First, I’m only meeting you because I’ve been asked to.’ Jackson
nodded. ‘Second, I’m not going to give you any more about what we’re
investigating than what’s in the official releases. Including yesterday’s.’

‘I wouldn’t ask you to.’

‘Third, if you print anything that tries to show me, or
anyone else as anything other than just a small cog in a big machine, two
things will happen. First, I’ll come round to that nice flat you’ve got in
Knutsford and beat the crap out of you. Second, no detective in the country
will speak to you, on or off the record, again. You know what I’m saying?’

Jackson gave a wary nod. Carver had no way of knowing what
he’d been expecting when he agreed to the meeting, but it probably wouldn’t
have included being threatened with violence.

‘And I don’t give a fuck if you’re taping this or not. The
same applies.’

A hesitant smile crossed Jackson lips. Taking up the mobile
he’d placed on the table as Carver took his seat, he played with it, then
showed Carver a screen showing a button labelled, ‘Delete Recording?’ He
pressed ‘Yes’, and put it away.

‘Right,’ Carver said. ‘What do you want to talk to me
about?’

Jackson took a slug of whiskey. ‘I’m being pushed to do a
follow-up on our last piece.’ Seeing Carver’s look he added, quickly, ‘Sorry,
my
last piece. But I’ve already told them it’s a non-starter. Not after last
time.’

‘So why are we here?’

Jackson looked around, as if expecting eavesdroppers. ‘I’m
still interested in the questions that remain un-answered after Hart’s
suicide.’ He eyed Carver, warily. ‘It was suicide, I take it?’

Carver stared at him. ‘That was the coroner’s verdict.’
If
you think I’m going to make this easy, think again.

‘Of course. It’s just that, I didn’t ever feel it was
properly explained?’ He put on an innocent face. ‘I’d be interested to hear
your take on it?’

Carver supped his pint, then stared into the glass.
Eventually he lifted his gaze to meet the other man’s. ‘When someone talks of
modern-day sex-killers, who you think of?’

Jackson thought a moment. ‘Nilson. Black. The Wests. Hindley
and Brady if you want to go back that far.’

Carver nodded. ‘Hart was worse than all of them. Far worse.
There was a lot didn’t come out during his trial. Stuff we found after he was
arrested. I won’t give details but let’s just say that in several people’s
opinion, including mine, Hart was the most extreme sexual-psychopath we’ve seen
in this country. Think of a deviation that involves sexual violence, torture,
sadism. He was into it. We know, mainly because he told us, that his plan was
to go on killing and torturing for a long time, using a range of methods. For
the Escort Girls he used a knife. But they were to be just the start of it. If
we hadn’t caught him when he did, he’d have begun targeting other types of
victims. Using other techniques. Other deviations. The point is, he was
addicted to this stuff the way a junkie is to their drug of choice. When he was
put away, he couldn’t stand life without the thing that had driven him for so
long. Suicide was the easy way out. In fact, it was probably his last big hit.’

Jackson nodded. ‘I’ve heard of that, but never come across
it.’

‘Sexual suicide is more common than most people think.
Coroners tend to go for accidental death for the benefit of relatives.’

Jackson became thoughtful. ‘Jesus.’ He finished his whiskey,
pointed to Carver’s empty glass. ‘Can I get you another?’

Carver hesitated, then nodded. ‘It’s not often I get to
charge to an expense account.’

When Jackson returned, he was ready to change tack.

‘The other thing I’m interested in-’ He paused, as if
needing Carver’s permission.

‘Go on.’

‘There was talk at the time that Hart may have had an
accomplice.’

Carver gave another nod.

‘Did you ever bottom it?’

‘We could never prove it one way, or the other.’

‘So… it’s still possible there
was
an accomplice?’

‘Depends who you ask. Some believe he worked alone, others
not.’

‘You?’

Carver took another long swig. ‘Off the record?’

‘Off the record.’

‘I tend to go with the accomplice theory.’

‘Why?’

Carver gave a non-committal shrug. ‘Small things. There was
a lot of blood at the scenes. We never found traces in his car, yet we know he
used one to get to and from at least some of them. Either he had another car we
never found, which is unlikely, or someone else dropped him off and picked him
up after. Also, before and after some of the killings he made telephone calls
to a mobile we never traced. Which begs the questions who was it, and why? Then
there’s the Black Merc.’

‘Black Merc?’

‘On the nights of two of the killings, cameras picked up a
black Mercedes close to the victim’s homes. Both times it was on false plates,
different ones each time. We couldn’t connect it to the scenes but it’s a hell
of a coincidence. As far as we’ve discovered, Hart never owned or had access to
a Mercedes, black or otherwise.’

‘And you think that’s enough to show there must have been an
accomplice?’

‘It is for me.’

‘In which case whoever it was- is, you must believe they’re
still out there, somewhere?’

Carver gave Jackson a hard stare. ‘Yes.’

Jackson stopped his glass halfway to his mouth.

‘My God.’ He paused. ‘So…’

‘What?’

‘So is anyone doing anything about it? Is anyone- are you,
still working on it?’

Carver shrugged. ‘The file’s still on my desk.’

 ‘So is that a, ‘Yes’?’

Carver chose his words carefully. ‘The Hart investigation
was officially closed after the court case. To my knowledge no one is working
on it. Officially.’

‘Unofficially?’

Carver held Jackson’s gaze. For long seconds, it was as if
they were the pub’s only customers. ‘I’m hopeful that one day something will
happen that will allow me to put the file away.’

Jackson’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why so circumspect? Presumably
your bosses know your views on all this?

Carver lifted his glass and stared at Jackson, hard, as he
took a long swig.

‘Fuck,’ Jackson said, but quietly. Realisation showed in his
face. ‘They told you to drop it.’

Carver said nothing.

‘But why? Surely, if there’s a possibility someone else was
involved, then the investigation should have continued, shouldn’t it?’

‘That would seem logical.’

‘But it didn’t.’

‘No.’

‘So I repeat, why?’

Carver breathed deeply. ‘You’d be better putting that
question to others. I can’t answer it.’

‘You must have a theory?’

Carver took a long breath. He’d been over it so many times.
‘When Hart was arrested, certainly after his conviction, the media presented it
as a success story. A victory for ‘local policing’. You’ll remember. You were
part of it.’

Jackson nodded, ‘I was, but-’

‘At the time there was lot of politicking going on. Police
reorganisations. Force amalgamations. All the crap the Home Office digs out
every few years whenever there’s some sort of policing crisis and they think
they can convince everyone the answer is to get rid of a load of Chief
Constables.’

Jackson leaned forward, as if sensing something. ‘You’re
going to tell me it involves The Black Quintet?’

Carver acknowledged the man’s insight with a slight nod. But
then Jackson would be more aware than most of the other, Big Police Story of
the time.

The media frenzy that followed the discovery of a conspiracy
amongst the Chiefs of the five biggest forces outside the Met had lasted for
weeks, not to mention the accompanying Parliamentary hoo-hah. According to a
disaffected, whistle-blowing Chief Superintendent, The Black Quintet, as they
were quickly dubbed, had been meeting in secret for years. By pulling strings
within ACPO, as it was back then, as well as Whitehall and elsewhere, they made
sure the service presented a united front in the face of the various Police
Reforms successive governments wanted to force through.

Jackson saw the link. ‘The Home Office was trying to use the
scandal to drive through force amalgamations.’

‘Right. But the Hart case was being championed as the
counter-argument by a lot of police spokes-persons. Their line was that Hart
would never have been caught if a local detective, working for a local force,
hadn’t been able to use his initiative.’

‘The ‘local detective’ being you.’

‘Right.’

‘And they used my feature to do it. The perfect example of
local policing coming up trumps.’

Carver pointed a finger.

‘Fuck me. How did I miss this?’

‘Good question.’

Jackson looked at him for a long time. ‘Jamie, I’m sorry, I
never-’

‘Forget it. It’s in the past.’

‘Yes, but-’

Carver gave him the look again. ‘I said, ‘forget it’.’

Jackson fell silent. Carver waited, finishing his drink,
giving him time. Eventually the man across the table picked up the thread.

‘It was in their interests to forget that Hart might have
had an accomplice.’ Carver stayed silent. ‘It wouldn’t have been such a success
story. In fact, some might have said the opposite. That it was a failure,
because there’s still a killer out there, waiting to be caught.’

‘Some
might
say that.’ Carver said.

‘I’m beginning to understand why you might not have been
returning my calls-’

About bloody time
.

Jackson became animated. ‘I’ve got it.’

Carver looked up.

‘These latest killings-’

‘What about them?’

‘You think they’re the work of Hart’s accomplice.’

Carver shook his head. ‘But don’t think I haven’t considered
it. We’ve looked at it every which way. Profiled them all, up, down,
inside-out. There’s nothing about the Worshipper series that matches what Hart
was doing in any way.’

‘So you think it’s an entirely separate series?’

‘That’s how we’re seeing it.’

Jackson seemed disappointed.

‘So where is he now?’

‘Who?’

‘Hart’s accomplice. What’s he doing, right now?’

Carver drained the rest of his pint. ‘I haven’t a clue. But
he’ll come. One day.’

'How so?'

'Someone'll give him up. Or he'll come forward and confess
his sins. Or he'll get picked up on something else and we'll make the
connection. All I know is, he'll come. I'm sure of it.'

Jackson looked doubtful, but said nothing.

For several minutes neither man spoke. Carver waited.

Eventually Jackson said, ‘So how much of this can I use?’

‘None of it.’

‘WHAT?’

‘Like I said. Off the record.’

Come on Jamie. There’s got to be some angle I can use.’

‘If there is, I can’t give it to you. Besides, you said you
just wanted to do a follow-up piece on me?’

‘I do, but-’

‘In which case the story is I’ve recovered from it all,
moved on and now I’m involved in a new investigation.’

‘Involving a killer who’s as twisted, if not more so, than
Hart himself.’

‘That’s a story isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but not as-’

‘-Good as the one you’d like to tell.’

‘Right.’

Carver stood up. ‘Life’s a bitch-’

Jackson gave a wry smile. ‘Then you die.’

They finished their drinks.

Eventually Jackson rose, held out a hand. ‘Thanks for seeing
me.’

Carver hesitated before taking it. It was as dry as he
remembered. ‘Like I said, it wasn’t my idea.’

‘Even so. Can we meet again? If I can come up with an angle,
I mean? One that’s acceptable to you?'

Carver thought on it. ‘Maybe.’ He left Jackson standing by
the table.

Walking towards his car his thought was,
Maybe he’s not
that sharp after all.

Then, behind, he heard, ‘JAMIE.’

He turned. Jackson was jogging towards him, animated again.
Spoke
too soon.

‘These spokespersons you mentioned. The ones who wanted to
make a big thing out of the Hart case.’

‘What about them?’

They included your Chief Constable at the time.’

‘So?’

‘He was your father.’