Saxon (21 page)

‘Morning, sir, how do you want to start, with the good news, or the bad news?’

‘Both will do and I don’t care how they come.’

‘Right, the bad news is that it’s a digitised voice so no chance of a voiceprint. Whoever made this tape must have typed it first and then got his or her computer to read it back, so it’s a completely mechanical voice, a bit like that Stephen Hawking chap. My guess is that either he used a laptop and took it to the phone box, and held the phone close enough to pick up the sound, or he re-recorded it to a small tape recorder and used that. Less chance of being seen I suppose.

‘Now, the good news is interesting. It has to be genuine. He talks about things that we haven’t released to the press; this bastard would have to have been there to know what he knows. There is more good news – he is giving us clues or maybe a puzzle to solve regarding his next murder. God knows why he would want to do that though, beats me.’

Saxon sat grinding his teeth for a moment, digesting the flood of information.

‘Could be that he wants to be famous. Most serial killers want that. If he is never caught, he can never be famous. Let’s hear the tape.’

Parker flicked the switch.

Parker switched off the tape recorder. ‘It seems too easy, sir, although there are a few bits I don’t get. What’s all that stuff about a trunk?’

‘Don’t you ever read anything, Parker? Call yourself a detective? Right, history lesson, pay attention. First of all the “Dear Boss” bit is the way Jack the Ripper addressed his letters
to the police – if it was indeed he who wrote them in the first place.

‘Then we have the first clue, back in 1934, a trunk containing a head and some limbs was left at Brighton Railway Station. The main suspect was a man named Mancini. He was never charged regarding that particular crime as he had a good alibi, but he did happen to have the body of his girlfriend Violet Kaye stored in a trunk in his flat. He even had the nerve to take her body with him when he moved house. He was charged with murder, but convinced the jury that she had died accidentally in a fall, and that he kept her in the trunk because he had a criminal record and didn’t think that he would get a fair trial. God knows how, but he was found not guilty and discharged.’

Parker stood staring at Saxon. ‘Excuse me for saying this but, does sir need to get out more? How on earth did you know all that?’

‘You’re excused this time, Parker. I have a comprehensive library of crime books.’ He paused. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Parker – some people collect stamps and butterflies, I just happen to collect crime books, and maybe it’s just as well because I think the “man” in the first clue probably refers to a present-day Mancini, who is more than likely the next victim.’

‘How about the second clue? The only thing that springs to my mind is Bailey, as in Motte and Bailey,’ Parker said sounding slightly unsure of himself. ‘Castle of justice has to be the Old Bailey.’

‘That’s pretty obvious, Parker, and I think the third clue has to be referring to a judge, and if the judge wears a wig in private, then he’s probably telling us that the judge is gay.’

‘How about the skip to get to Heaven, sir?’

‘That’s the bit that worries me, Parker. I don’t think our friend is warning us about an impending murder at all. I think he’s already killed the poor sod. He’s not going to risk capture, not just yet anyhow. I think the bastard has already done it. Call it
instinct if you want, but I just know it. Get me a list of all High Court judges in the country and I want a search started now of all builders skip’s within a half-mile radius of the Old Bailey. Any skip trucks that have picked up loads within the twelve hours are to be traced. But my feeling is that we will find a body in the closest one to the courts.’

It didn’t take long to locate the list of judges, and to see that one was named Bernard Mancini. Two members of Saxon’s team, Sergeant’s Brian Anderson and Jim Groves raced to his home address in Chislehurst; they tried to phone him on the way but got no reply. The house was located in a quiet road near Chislehurst woods, a large mock Tudor, complete with roses round the door and brick paths.

The car skidded to a halt and Groves jumped out. He grabbed the gate and flung it open with a crash as Anderson revved up the engine. Groves hurled himself back into the car and in a cloud of flying gravel they sped up the lengthy drive to the front door.

The house was silent and dark, with no signs of life. Anderson ran around to the back door while Groves first pressed the bell button followed by several hard bangs on the door. The front door was solid, but the back door gave up the fight easily after a couple of kicks from two pairs of size tens. Mr Justice Mancini was not at home.

Meanwhile, back in London, teams of constables searched for builders skips in the area of the Old Bailey. The search only lasted twenty minutes. A skip less than thirty yards from the law courts attracted their attention quickly. On its side, large sprayed-on lettering which read, “NOT FIT TO JUDGE” in bright red.

A tent was erected over the skip. Mancini was found lying under a double mattress in his full courtroom regalia except for the wig, which was blonde with long flowing curls. Bright red lipstick was smeared around his mouth, giving the appearance
of a large gaping wound, the sight of which made the SOCOs, even with their experiences of far worse horrors, draw back in shock when the mattress was removed.

Saxon and Parker arrived at midday, during the forensic search of the body, while the entire contents of the skip were removed bit by bit to another skip that was now parked within a few feet of the first one. One of Saxon’s team, Dave Hope, a gangly shaven-headed detective constable, showed them a plastic bag containing a few strands of hair.

‘Found them in the deceased gentleman’s hand, Commander, they’re short and there’s only a few of them but some have part of the hair root attached so there’s a chance that they may be okay for DNA testing.’

‘Thank God for that, at last we have something,’ said Saxon wanting to give Parker a “high five” but restraining himself in front of the crowd, which was growing by the minute.

‘There’s more, Commander, a few fibres caught on a fingernail – looks like wool to me.’

‘I couldn’t give a toss what it is, so long as we can match it to someone’s clothing. It’s the hair I’m interested in. However, it’s one thing to have DNA, but if you don’t have a suspect to match it to, you are well and truly screwed.’

Parker who had been lurking around the edge of the skip suddenly called for a long probe of some kind, having spotted something tucked down below the body and next to the edge of the skip. He was handed a wire coat hanger, which had been opened out to form a long hook.

‘Christ, call this the high-tech age, I suppose it’ll do though,’ he muttered as he groped around trying to hook the object. After several minutes of cursing and heavy sweating, he retrieved it. And there it was dangling on the end of Parker’s low-tech hook, a single surgical glove.

‘Parker, you know, I think I will keep you after all. Well bloody done, that man deserves a medal. Right, I want that bagged and
I want to know whether the fingerprints inside the glove are useable, and I want to know within the hour. I also want everything there is to know about Mr Justice Mancini. What cases he has presided over for the last five years; has his life ever been threatened? That sort of thing; and I want it on my desk just after you tell me about the fingerprints. Understood? Good. See you in my office.’

Parker looked as though he had been sledgehammered, and wandered off to complete his tasks. He stopped after a few yards and turned back towards Saxon.

‘I’ve been thinking, but it may sound daft.’

‘Spit it out, Parker, I don’t care how daft any ideas are at the moment.’

Parker paused as if too embarrassed to even contemplate what he was intending to say.

‘Okay, but I’m clutching straws here.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Parker, part of good police work is being able to use one’s imagination. If it sounds daft I’ll tell you, and it won’t go on your record.’

‘Right,’ began Parker nervously, ‘the mystery phone call came from a phone box in the Brighton Marina, and you know who lives there, don’t you?’

‘Enlighten me, Parker – I don’t feel like a pub quiz just now.’ Parker shifted about uncomfortably.

‘Jake Dalton, he lives in one of those little wanky designer flats. What’s more, as we both know he has medical knowledge.’

‘Well, he would wouldn’t he; he’s a bloody doctor. But he’s also not a fool. Don’t you think it would be a bit daft, to say the least, to use a phone that’s close to his home to make a call to the police warning them about a murder he was intending to commit. Doesn’t make sense, the guy’s too bright. He’d know that we would trace the call.’

They stood in silence for a few moments, finding the heat almost unbearable. Parker broke the silence. ‘By the way, sir, did
you know Jake was burgled the other day?’

‘No, I didn’t, but what’s it got to do with this?’

‘Nothing much was taken, apart from some old clothing, and odd worthless stuff, strange things like a hairbrush, which you have to agree is pretty weird. But the interesting thing, sir, was that the place was wrecked and the guy next door didn’t hear a thing. Now you have to admit, that’s unusual; a big-time mess with broken furniture and graffiti usually means some noise, if not quite a lot.

‘The local boys think it was probably kids, but what if it was meant to appear that way. Suppose it was someone looking for specific items.’ Parker thought for a moment, wondering if maybe his imagination was getting the better of him. ‘Forget it, sir, I’m probably fantasising.’

Saxon stood with his chin resting on the heel of his palm.

‘Please tell me they took his fingerprints for elimination, and that they haven’t been destroyed yet.’

‘They did, and they haven’t.’ Parker’s eyes lit up. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, sir? The surgical glove from the skip?’ Saxon pulled out his mobile and dialled the station. He told them to hold. He looked at Parker with growing excitement in his eyes.

‘Who’s the fingerprint man at Brighton nick?’ Saxon asked Parker.

‘Palmer…just ask for Pinky Palmer, they’ll know who you mean.’

Saxon was told that Palmer was off duty and was given his mobile number. Palmer didn’t mind being interrupted during his afternoon’s gardening, and he confirmed that he hadn’t destroyed Jake Dalton’s fingerprints yet.

‘Bring the glove, Parker; we are going straight back to Brighton, I want Pinky Palmer to check this out while we stand over him. If the prints are Jake’s then we arrest him immediately.’ Saxon was starting to smile to himself as they climbed into his
car.

Parker was the first to speak. ‘I have to say, I find it difficult to believe Jake Dalton is our man. Jake for Christ’s sake, we both know Jake, he seems so normal.’

‘I know what you mean, Parker, but remember what Ercott said – he could be as normal as you, Parker. But we can’t be sure it is him yet…we could be jumping the gun. We’ll know within three hours.’ Saxon drove through South London, weaving in and out of the back streets; until he hit the M25, then it was cruise control all the way to Brighton.

Tuesday, June 11, Brighton Police Station, 2.30PM

Pinky Palmer was waiting in Saxon’s office when they arrived. He almost snatched the bag containing the rubber glove from Parker’s hand, and they followed him to his office; the walls of which were decorated with posters and diagrams of fingerprints showing whorls and spirals, all with points of reference clearly marked.

Palmer talked to Saxon all the way through the process of extracting the fingerprints from the inside of the surgical glove. Although Saxon was fascinated, he just wanted the result, not the lecture.

All of the prints were good. Palmer explained that the reason why they were so good was because the glove had been removed carefully, and not in the way that they were usually pulled over the wrist. He thought that the reason for this was that the glove had been covered in a considerable amount of blood, which had now dried, and the wearer would not have wanted to splash himself.

Palmer made up two slides, one with Jake’s thumbprint from his flat, and the other from the glove.

Saxon could hardly contain himself.

‘Well, does it, or doesn’t it match, tell me for Christ’s sake.’ Palmer took a deep breath, and looked sideways at Saxon, he
looked disappointed.

‘Perfect match, I couldn’t wish for a better set of prints…and he’s supposed to be on our side.’

Saxon had a look of elation, but it turned to exasperation quickly. ‘I agree, I’ve known him for a few years – it’s hard to believe it, but how else can you explain the appearance of that glove in the same skip in which we find a body in London. I’ll keep an open mind on this one, and if there is an explanation I really can’t wait to hear it.’