Saxon (18 page)

‘And your wife’s name is…?’ Saxon paused. ‘…Please fill in the gap, Jenner, your wife, her name is?’

‘Okay not my wife…a friend.’ He looked down at the floor; his voice carried the tone of a man crushed.

‘A friend is it? What is the name of your friend, bearing in mind that we will be checking out this friend very thoroughly?’

Saxon didn’t want Jenner to have an alibi. Of all people, this fat loud-mouthed bastard would do nicely.

‘Lizzie, her name’s Lizzie, she’s an old friend of mine, bit of a slag but…’

‘I understand, Jenner, spare me the sordid details, you don’t need to explain.’ Saxon’s hopes flew out of the window.
Shit, he has an alibi. Shit. He wouldn’t have admitted to having a meal with his slag if it wasn’t true
.

Parker looked coldly at Jenner and asked, ‘What is the full name and address of your slag?’ And then threw in, ‘Are you the sole beneficiary in the event of your sister’s death?’

‘I don’t know do I…well I suppose so…haven’t really thought about it.’

Saxon stopped taking notes and looked up.

‘Come off it, Jenner, we may look a bit simple but we’re not daft. Your sister dies suddenly – and shame on me for thinking this, but she owned a very big house in the country, with stables and a fair bit of land. In fact, not a bad little earner. Dare I say this could make you a very wealthy man? You can’t blame us for thinking such things? You’ve already admitted that you couldn’t stand her. I repeat, Jenner, we are not daft, and you, I know, are a cunning bastard. For all we know you may have decided to have her topped. We know everything about you and your business and the sort of people you mix with and your entire past all the way back to ten minutes before conception. Tell me, Jenner, what’s the going rate for a hit man down the Old Kent Road these days – a hundred quid, five hundred?’

Jenner lit a cigarette, blew the smoke towards his interrogators and folded his arms, fag in mouth.

‘You two are going to look like a couple of right fuckin’
wankers – I didn’t kill my sister, but I’ll tell you what – I’m glad the bent bitch is dead. She was a cow, and if it keeps you arseholes busy for a while, all the bleedin’ better. If you want to talk to me again I want my solicitor with me.’

Saxon paused and made notes long enough to make his victim twitchy. As Jenner was about to speak, Saxon interrupted him. ‘Well, thanks for your time, you have been entertaining to say the least, and don’t worry about your solicitor, next time we will come to your home…maybe your wife could help us with a few details regarding your whereabouts on certain days and nights. Perhaps we could get your wife and your slag together to discuss some of the finer details of your business activities. Help us fill in the gaps if you know what I mean. Oh, and please correct me if I’m wrong, but of course, I know I’m not, I do believe you have been questioned in the past regarding fraud. Maybe we can take another look at that case while we are at it. Spent some time banged up for violence too: attempted murder, reduced charge not enough evidence – yeah right. We’ll be in touch – can’t wait to meet the wife. You can go now, Mr Jenner, thank you for cooperating with you friendly neighbourhood police service.’

Jenner banged his cigarette on the table near the ashtray and moved towards the door. Parker called him back.

‘Not so fast, Mr Jenner – I want the address and phone number of your slag, if you don’t mind.’ Jenner scribbled it down on a piece of paper and pushed it across the table. He then left quickly and without a word. But they both heard the outer door slam. The interview room was supposed to be soundproof.

Saxon slouched back in his chair and lit one of Parker’s cigarettes. He wondered idly if Francesca smoked. He hoped so.

‘Delightful chap, Mr Jenner,’ he said to Parker. ‘But it’s obvious he didn’t do it. For starters, he’s not clever enough – the man’s a Neanderthal. He certainly doesn’t fit Ercott’s profile.’ He tossed a copy across to Parker.

Saxon blew smoke contentedly into the air above his head. He leant back and watched it disappear.

Parker looked up from the report. ‘So, we should be looking for a professional man between the ages of thirty-three and fortyfive, boss,’ he quoted.

Saxon nodded. ‘How the hell he came up with those numbers I’ll never know, but I guess he knows what he’s talking about.’

Parker ran through the points Ercott had suggested. ‘Right, apart from the age group, he’ll likely be an educated, even cultured type, exceptionally cunning.’

‘How do we spot cunning, I wonder, Parker?’ Saxon mused.

‘Says here that’s he’s possibly very right wing,’ Parker added.

‘And he would seem to be someone who has his life in good order,’ Saxon interrupted. ‘In good order, that is, apart from this little quirk which prompts him to murder people from time to time.’

‘What did it say about medical knowledge? I know there was something,’ he asked.

Parker found the place. ‘Yes, the professor says he will almost certainly have medical knowledge of some kind. Also that he’s physically very strong. And obviously, he has a big grudge regarding gays.’ He read on in silence.

‘I was interested by what Ercott said about the killer’s attitude to his victims,’ said Saxon. ‘The method he uses to kill them indicates that he likes to attack them from the front, and that’s a dead giveaway, apparently.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and kept crushing it even though it was never going to smoulder again.

‘So,’ he went on, ‘what are our possibilities? Could it be that our killer is gay but not out of the closet yet? Or maybe gay, but brutalised by his parents as a result. Or maybe a close relative of his has either contracted AIDS and is sick or has already died from it.’

Parker had a suggestion. ‘Maybe we could contact all of the
hospitals in the area and start looking for men who have lost either a wife to the disease or even a child?’

Saxon nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘But to start with, we’re only interested in men who fall in the age group that Professor Ercott has suggested.’ Parker was thinking as he went along. ‘It could be that the killer himself has the disease from a blood transfusion, or possibly, he is a doctor or male nurse and has been accidentally pricked with an HIV-contaminated needle.’

Parker stubbed out his cigarette and stood leaning against the wall. ‘It won’t be easy though, the hospitals and hospices don’t like to give out that sort of info.’ He lit another cigarette after Saxon declined one. Parker inhaled deeply. ‘If the killer is big and strong, that excludes that tosser Marks then, doesn’t it, boss,’ he said.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘He may be tall, but he’s built like a right nancy,’ said Parker, in a tone that expected no disagreement. None was forthcoming.

‘Which reminds me, sir, isn’t it time we went and had a few words with him? He probably can’t believe his luck – he must have seen the news by now surely. There’s got to be some major movements going on in his bowels at the moment.’

Saxon laughed aloud. ‘You’re right, Parker, although it hardly seems worth it – we know he didn’t do it. The only good thing that could come out of talking to him is that he may have seen the man with the hat and glasses just before he did his Jack the Ripper routine on Lucas. We’ll go and talk to him this evening at seven. I think it’s only fair that Mrs Marks knows what her husband gets up to in the evenings.’

They left the police station and wandered down to the promenade looking for a suitable fish and chip shop for a real policeman’s lunch. It was the high season for tourists and the queue at the fish and chip shop was heaving, so they found a pub and settled for a sandwich and a couple of pints instead. Saxon
bought the first two and carried them out to Parker who was sitting under a parasol, but still baking.

‘Any bright ideas on what to do next?’ said Saxon, as he sat down heavily, exhausted by the heat. He put away most of his pint in one swig.

Parker looked lost. ‘I’m sorry to say I haven’t the foggiest idea what we can do. It’s really frustrating; we’ve absolutely nothing to go on. It’s as I feared, we have wait for him to kill again, and hope for him to make a cock-up. Not the most proactive way to go about things though, is it, sir?’

Saxon sat sipping his beer and looking out towards the Palace Pier. ‘And if he stops killing, we will never know who he was. And that would never do, would it, Parker?’

Tuesday, May 21, Wychwood Cottage, Sewel Mill, 6.55PM

Saxon’s Land Rover crunched over the gravel drive to Dr Marks’ cottage, slowly coming to a halt in front of the garage. The surroundings were idyllic, Sussex Weald with the South Downs as a backdrop. The cottage – built during the reign of Henry VIII, had stood the test of time well. The only sign of any interference by modern man showing on the roof – the thatch was just a little bit too new.

They walked across the drive to the front door and Saxon tried the doorbell, but got no response. Several loud law-enforcement-style knocks on the door proved fruitless too, so they followed the path around to the back of the property. The garden was extensive and well-maintained, covering roughly four acres of well-tended lawns and flowerbeds.

They found Marks and his wife lounging on sun beds, on a large patio, next to an impressive swimming pool.

Mrs Marks was a slim attractive woman with jet-black hair; she was forty but looked a young thirty. Saxon noticed at once that she appeared shaky and withdrawn. Her hand, holding a very large gin and tonic shook as she put the glass to her lips.

Marks saw them before his wife, and sprang to his feet with a look of dread on his face. Saxon didn’t waste any time, and before Marks could introduce his wife, Saxon launched his attack.

‘Dr Marks, where were you last night? Think carefully before you answer.’

Marks stood his ground and decided that attack may be his best form of defence. He shouted at Saxon.

‘How dare you come here and talk to me in that manner. I will not tolerate this sort of treatment. I am not a criminal and I refuse to be treated as one. Now, please leave.’

Saxon remained calm. ‘I repeat, where were you Dr Marks? If of course you refuse to answer my questions, we can discuss this matter at Brighton Police Station.’

Marks remained silent as if he couldn’t bring himself to speak in front of his wife.

Saxon turned to Mrs Marks, who appeared to be in a semi-drunken state, with the intention of introducing himself. She got there first.

‘Clive, who are these people, and what do they want?’

Marks looked down at his wife. ‘Nothing for you to worry about, darling. You sit there and relax. I’ll go inside and talk to these gentlemen – I won’t be long, I’ll bring you a cold drink.’

‘Clive, you haven’t been naughty again, have you?’

This comment from Mrs Marks stopped everyone in their tracks. She looked up at Saxon and Parker, with a slightly confused expression on her face.

‘Police, you’re policemen aren’t you?’

‘I am Commander Saxon, and this is Detective Sergeant Parker, we are investigating several murders, the one that we wish to talk to your husband about happened in a gay pub in Brighton – we know that he was in the pub in question, at the time of the murder. The victim was a police officer and your husband may have been the last person to speak to him. We are
here to talk to him, not to arrest him.’

Mrs Marks’ face took on a stunned disbelieving look with considerable anger beginning to boil up.

Saxon turned to Marks, whose face was growing redder by the second. He continued. ‘Dr Marks, I don’t really care what you get up to in your private life, I just want to catch whoever it is going around chopping people up. You can answer my questions here or we can go to Brighton. Here is much more pleasant, believe me. You decide.’

Mrs Marks hurriedly put down her drink, stood up, stripped off her gown and dived into the pool.

Marks sat down and motioned the two policemen to sit.

‘Okay, what do you want to know, Commander?’ Please excuse my wife, she’s been rather unwell. She seems to live on booze and tablets at the moment. She had a nervous breakdown a few months ago, never really recovered. She has boyfriends, you see. The latest one turned out to be a bit of a pain. When she tired of him, he wouldn’t take no for an answer and he started to stalk her. It all got a bit nasty, and she couldn’t cope with it. And before you ask me why she has boyfriends, I suppose I’d better tell you. You’ll find out anyway I suppose.’ Marks paused and looked down and said nothing for too long.

‘Yes, Dr Marks, we’re still here waiting for you to tell us something earth-shattering. But I think you are about to tell us that you are gay…is that right?’

‘No, Commander, bisexual would be a better description.’

‘Amounts to the same thing if you ask me,’ interrupted Parker.

‘Well, we are not asking you, are we, Sergeant?’ Marks spat.

Parker backed off, but was unable to hide the slight smirk on his face. Saxon shot him a glance, which clearly told him to shut up.

‘This is all very interesting, but I need some answers regarding the night of the murder. First, I think we have established why you were in the Speckled Cat pub – what I want to
know is if you spoke to him, what did Constable Michael Lucas say to you during the evening, and did you see anyone who looked out of place?’

Saxon took out a picture of Lucas and pushed it under Marks’ nose.

‘Did you speak to this man?’

Marks studied the picture, but showed no reaction at all.

‘Yes, Commander, I did. He didn’t say much at all really, just that he was wealthy and didn’t need to work, and he said he was unsure of his sexuality – huh, times I’ve heard that one. I had no idea that he was a police officer, Commander, none at all. Anyway, we sat talking for a while and he said that he wanted to go to the toilet. That was the last I saw of him. He didn’t come back and I got tired of waiting, so I left. And no, I didn’t see anyone with a badge that said “murderer, pay attention”, written all over it.’

Saxon rolled up his shirtsleeves another couple of inches, wondering if Marks would offer a cold drink – he didn’t.