Shooting Elvis (19 page)

‘It could be a first.’

‘It could indeed.’

Eddie Carmichael was sitting at the end of the front row. ‘You anything to ask, Eddie?’ I said.

‘Um, no guv. I was just wondering about the gangland thing, but you’ve covered it.’

‘That’s it, then,’ I said. ‘See your sergeant or me if you’re not sure what you’re doing. First thing is to continue looking into the background of the deceased. He apparently let his assailant into the house, so he probably knew him. The MO is unique, so we have no usual suspects from that angle, but there’s no doubt he had some shady friends. Get it all down in your reports and be careful: we’re dealing with dangerous people. I’ll be upstairs for the rest of the morning, if anybody wants to see me.’

I took Adrian up to my office. One or two photos of the murder scene were pinned on the incident room wall, but they were the expurgated ones. I took a folder of the full set out of a drawer
and passed it to him. I also had a set taken of Alfred Armitage, but I didn’t show him them just yet.

After he’d perused the photos for a while I said, ‘Speak to me, Adrian.’

He shoved them back towards me. ‘I’ve nothing to say, Chas. Taken in isolation, this is simply someone who fell foul of someone else and got himself murdered. It might be over drugs – that must be the favourite – or a girl, or money. Anything.’

‘It won’t have been over a girl,’ I said. ‘Their creed is to impregnate as many as possible, that’s all.’

‘A noble aspiration. And are we so different, Charlie?’

‘Speak for yourself. So what’s all this hanging him over the toilet about, then?’

‘Ah,’ he began, leaning forward on his hard chair. ‘Now this is interesting. I’ve never seen it before but there is a certain symbolism. The murderer went to great pains to create this little diorama, lugging the body upstairs, knocking the holes in the ceiling, threading the rope over the joist and hoisting the body aloft. It obviously meant a lot to him. He could have hung him anywhere downstairs, or not hung him at all, but he chose to do it over the toilet. He invested a great deal of effort in it. Now what does that say to you, Charlie?’

‘That he thought Lapetite was a piece of shit?’ I suggested.

‘Exactly. And I’d say we were looking for a white man, wouldn’t you?’

‘Well that narrows it down,’ I said.

A shadow fell over my desk and I looked round to see Dave’s considerable shape looming at the other side of the glass door. ‘Come in,’ I yelled before he could knock.

‘Hi prof,’ he said. ‘Have you sorted it for us, yet?’

‘Nearly, David,’ Adrian replied. ‘Just a few minor details to fill in.’

‘What have you got?’ I asked.

‘I’ve had words with the deputy editor at
UK News
,’ he told us. ‘The information came in by telephone from someone claiming to be an officer on the case. They have a recording of the conversation and I’ve asked Tower Hamlets to collect it. They’ve also said they’ll try to trace if the call was billed to anyone. It was probably made on a mobile, but it’s worth a try.’

‘Good stuff,’ I said. ‘Have a seat while Adrian fills in those minor details he mentioned.’ I turned to him. ‘Earlier, Adrian, you said “Taken in isolation”. What did you mean?’

‘Well, we were looking at one murder. When we consider the earlier death, and consider the strong possibility of it being mistaken identity, a different picture emerges, which, of course, is why you asked me to be here. Can I see the other photographs, please?’

I passed the folder to him and he took out the wad of ten-by-eight colour prints that showed poor Alfred frozen in his death throes.

‘Are these taken on a digital?’ he asked, and I told him they were.

‘Good, aren’t they?’

‘Mmm.’

‘I’ve just bought one. Haven’t used it yet.’

‘Are they linked?’ I asked, before he started quoting pixels and megabytes.

‘Do you really need me to tell you, Charlie?’

‘You’re saying they are?’

‘Look at them. Two murders in what, three weeks? And less than three miles apart. Then there’s the methodology. OK, so they’re different, very different, but the mind behind them is the same. It’s someone who likes ritual.’

‘You mean, like a defrocked vicar?’ I suggested.

‘That’s the obvious choice,’ he said, ‘but I doubt it.’

‘Oh. Sorry to be obvious. What else is there?’

‘I’d say he’s married,’ Adrian said. ‘Happily married, although some people would say that’s an oxymoron. Not me, of course, but often, in
so-called
happy marriages, one partner is completely subjugated by the other one. This will be one of those, but outside the marriage he’s a bit of a loner. He’s never fitted in with the society around him. He lives locally. He’s middle class, moderately successful and has had a decent education.’

‘University?’ I asked.

‘Um, not sure. Probably not. Serial killers are often in their thirties, but this one could be older. He’s on a mission. He’s seen the way the country is perceived as going, thanks to scaremongering by the media, and has decided to do something about it.’

‘Voices in the head?’ I wondered.

‘Possibly.’

‘Why isn’t he content with just killing them?’ Dave asked.

‘Because he wants the publicity,’ Adrian replied. ‘I was telling Charlie about it earlier. It’s like a drug to him. He does what he does for maximum impact.’

‘So I can safely tell the chief that we have only one murderer loose in the town?’ I said.

‘Almost without doubt.’

‘Thanks for that, Adrian. It simplifies things. Of all the other stuff you’ve told us, the bit that appeals to me most is this ritual thing.’

Dave said, ‘The phone caller claimed he was a police officer. Do you think he could be?’

‘Good question. He’s forensically aware, as you have no doubt realised. And he has a certain competence. He can do things. He could be a police officer. That might explain how he gained admittance. How keen are you on rituals? Are they instilled deep into every fibre of your psyche?’

‘Not in Heckley,’ Dave replied with a grin.

It was a relief. We’d been barking up the wrong rabbit holes with Alfred, but now I felt we were on the right scent. As Dave put it in his usual succinct way, we had an executionist loose in the town. I had a long talk with Mr Wood and Les Isles, the acting ACC, and they agreed that the investigations be combined, so I went down into the incident room and spent an hour redecorating the walls and arranging for a HOLMES terminal to be installed. All the stuff about Hell’s Angels and industrial espionage was moved to an end wall and was replaced by the photos of Jermaine Lapetite from the Portakabin. I marked the location of his house on the map and sat staring at it for several minutes, wondering where and when I’d be sticking the next coloured pin.

Criminals have a choice of where they commit their crimes, and that choice tells us something about them. Sometimes it’s all we have to go on. Murderers rarely travel far, unless they are lorry drivers or such like. Most murders are committed less than a mile from the killer’s base, which is usually, but not always, his home. The scale of the big map was six inches to the mile. Freehand, I drew half-mile circles round the two murder scenes and joined them up in a big oval. There was a better-than-average chance that the Executioner lived inside it, and the next person to come through the door would get the job of listing everybody in there. I studied the
street names, noted the positions of churches, schools and telephone boxes. There was a pub, a library and a fire station, too, which didn’t help a great deal.

We made a few arrests for carrying drugs and weapons, discovered more details about Lapetite’s sordid past, upset certain quarters of our community. More of the troops carried guns when they went to conduct interviews.

I hadn’t carried a gun for nearly eight years. His name was Willy O’Hagan, the man I killed. He’d have been thirty-four, now. I wouldn’t want any of the team going through what I went through. It was too big a price to pay. But they were carrying the guns, not me. It wasn’t right. I was the boss, so the responsibility was mine. I reached for the internal directory and looked for a number.

‘Firearms,’ I was briskly told, after I’d dialled.

‘Is that the handsome, young PC Damian Lord?’ I asked.

‘Speaking.’

‘Hello, Damian. It’s DI Priest at Heckley. Charlie Priest. My firearms certificate expired years ago and I’d like to renew it. What do I need to do?’

‘You’ll have to come on a course and re-qualify.’

‘I realise that. How long will it take?’

‘For just an authorised shot? Two two-day courses, if you’re not specialising.’

‘I can’t afford the time. Can we condense it?’

‘You could just come for one day of each, I suppose, but you’d still have to achieve the pass mark.’

‘Which is what?’

‘Fifty rounds, eighty per cent.’

‘Strewth. I thought it was only seventy per cent.’

‘It was, but we tightened it. Presumably you’re only interested in the Glock 17.’

‘I imagine so. Thanks a lot, Damian. Any chance of my coming down one afternoon for a spot of practice before then? I’ve never fired a Glock. Not this week, though. We’ve a murder enquiry on.’

‘I’ve heard about it. You can come down anytime, Mr Priest.’

‘Cheers. I’ll give you a ring.’

I obviously couldn’t go down anytime. He had courses to supervise, tests to conduct, but he’d fit me in. The range is in the grounds of a swanky hotel near Huddersfield. It had once been a minor stately home with extensive grounds, but impoverished descendants bequeathed it to the local council and it fell into disrepair. The authorities – whoever they are – appropriated it for anti-terrorist training in the wake of the Iranian embassy siege and for a while the grounds echoed to the sound of running boots, thunderflashes and barked commands, late into the night. We used it, as did the army. I believe joint exercises were held with the SAS, but it was all hush-hush and I was never involved. I don’t look good with my face
blacked. A fifty-metre indoor shooting range was built in the grounds, and then the hotel chain bought the whole estate, except for the firing range. The golfers at the thirteenth hole look at the building, see the police vehicles parked outside, and wonder briefly what it’s all about. Then they drive off and forget it exists. Inside, hot lead is flying through the smoky air and streams of spent cartridge cases are clattering on the concrete floor. As well as instructing, tests are conducted on things like shotgun spread and bullet penetration. Damian has found himself a fun job, most of the time, but he’s also an expert with a sniper rifle.

I’d wondered what it would feel like to hold a gun again, but two weeks ago I’d picked up the Glock 17 issued to Eddie Carmichael and wasn’t struck by lightning. I didn’t start shaking like an agoraphobic bungee jumper or find it impossible to lift the gun off the counter. It was no big deal.

Wednesday morning my picture was in the
Gazette
again. This time it was the photo taken at the ball, with Sonia and the Stanwicks. There was half a page of them, covering just about everybody present, and ours looked good – I was smiling – but the caption wasn’t designed to please Stanwick. It said: ‘Sonia Thornton and Charlie Priest, with two of the other guests.’ Ah well, I thought, some have greatness thrust upon them.

Jeff Caton came into my office holding a
rolled-up 
magazine. ‘Have you seen this, Charlie?’ he said, placing it on my desk under my nose and smoothing it out. It was
Hello!
magazine, and some wag had cut me out and pasted me on the front, neatly nestling in a lissom soap star’s décolletage. I shook my head and dropped it in the bin, but after he’d gone I retrieved it to show Sonia.

Bits of information were dribbling in from all corners of the enquiry. The scientific branch testing the stair carpet found traces of shoe polish on it, coinciding with the footprints detected by the ESLA tests. The pattern of these indicated that they were left by whoever dragged the body upstairs and that he was acting alone.

Best of all, voice print analysis indicated that the person who rang 999 to tell us about the body was the same one who rang the
UK News
with the false gory details. That call was made at 23:32 Saturday night, from a pay phone in Heckley bus station. Unfortunately the cash box had been emptied, so we couldn’t check the coins for fingerprints, but they still had their CCTV tapes. I rang Adrian Foulkes and left a message.

He caught me at home, just as I was testing the chicken.

‘Sorry to disturb you at home, Charlie,’ he said, ‘but I’ve had a busy day.’

‘As long as that’s the real reason,’ I told him, ‘and you weren’t hoping that Sonia would answer the phone.’

‘Ah, you caught me out again, Charlie. Is she there? Can I have a word?’

‘Sorry, Adrian, but she’s not home yet.’ It was a lie: she was upstairs having a shower, but if I’d told him that he’d have had a cardiac arrest. ‘Can we talk about work?’ I said.

‘Fire away.’

I told him about the phone calls and he was silent for nearly a minute. I could hear piano music in the background. Something slow and classy. A Chopin nocturne at a guess, but I’m not an expert. Eventually he said, ‘The clothes line, Charlie. Did the killer take it with him or find it at the house?’

‘It belonged at the house. He cut it down from outside. And we’ve found a hammer that he used to knock the holes in the ceiling. He probably found that there, too.’

‘So he was extemporising, making it up as he went along.’

‘It looks that way.’

‘He did the deed, and then he looked for materials to perform his ritual. Shall I tell you something, Chas?’

‘Go on.’

‘No matter how many statements you issue to the contrary, the entire population of this country will believe that young Mr Lapetite was found with his severed knob in his mouth.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, Adrian, so where does that leave us?’

‘It leaves us like this: the killer didn’t sever the penis, but afterwards, he wished he had. It came to him, as an afterthought. Hey!
La Petite
! – the little one. Was it, do you know?’