Shooting Elvis (27 page)

We have an out-of-date electoral roll hanging by a piece of string under the notice board in the main office, and a more up-to-date one available on the
computer. The office was deserted, desks strewn with papers, outdoor coats hanging behind the door because the sun was shining, coffee mugs left where they’d finished with them. Screensavers revolved and swam and swooped silently, lights blinked on telephones, the morning’s tabloids poked out of waste paper bins. I unhooked the electoral roll and sat down at the nearest desk.

The tenants of 14 Canalside Gardens were John Wesley Williamson and Miriam Williamson. Doc Bones. Somebody was telling me to get down to where Doc Bones lived. And his wife. The bundle of sheets fell out of my fingers to the floor. The screensaver where I was sitting showed snowflakes hurtling towards me, as if I were driving into a blizzard, and I felt dizzy.

Back in my office I found his home number and dialled it. There was no answer. I wrote
Ring me
in big letters on a sheet of A4 and left it propped against Dave’s VDU, but as I burst out into the sunshine he was walking away from his car towards the front door.

‘With me,’ I shouted to him, and he changed course.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked, fastening his seatbelt as I bullied my way out into the traffic. I told him about the call and we drove the rest of the way in silence.

Canalside Gardens is a small development of detached houses near enough to the canal to claim
an interest, far enough away to avoid the flies and the smell. You could probably see it from the upstairs windows, but I wasn’t there to admire the location. Number fourteen was one of two across the end of the cul-de-sac, with a pair of pergolas dominating the front garden.

‘She must be the gardener,’ I said.

‘Not necessarily,’ Dave argued, adding, ‘they probably grow smelly flowers so he can appreciate them.’

We’d tried ringing again, sitting outside his house, and also dialled his clinic, but a recorded message told us that the clinic was closed on Wednesdays. The paintwork was bright and the garden immaculate, straight from an estate agent’s brochure, but the windows were dark against the bright sun, and implacable to our enquiring eyes. I didn’t know if Miriam worked. I unfastened my seatbelt and we walked up his short drive. I peeked through the garage window but there was no car inside. Dave raised his hand and looked at me. I nodded and he hammered on the door. Four hammers later he tried the handle with a fingertip and it swung open.

You’re never quite ready for the smell, but this one was more of a surprise than usual. The door led straight into the kitchen, and somebody had been cooking. It reminded me of when my mother cooked Sunday roasts. Dad was a roast beef man, and I follow his example.

‘Mmm, that smells good,’ Dave said, doing his Bisto kids impression.

We stepped inside and I shouted Doc Bones’ name. ‘John,’ I called. ‘It’s Charlie Priest. Are you in?’ but there was no reply. We looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders. ‘You look down here,’ I said. ‘I’ll have a look upstairs.’

There were gaudy prints of Caribbean beach scenes on the walls of the staircase. I felt for each step with a foot, looking upwards, calling ‘John, are you there?’ in a wavering voice. There was something about the silence that unnerved me. At the top, on the landing wall, was a big glossy photograph of the doc in his prime, three feet off the ground as he dropped the ball into the basket. Slam dunk.

‘Are you there?’ I called, more quietly. A bedroom door was open and I was drawn towards it as if by magnetism. ‘John? Are you there?’

His bare feet were towards me, white underneath, and he was sprawled across the bed. ‘Doc? Can you hear me?’ I touched the sole of his left foot, but it was cold and there was no reaction. It looked as if he were asleep, with his head dangling over the far side of the bed. I moved round the bed, so I could check for vital signs, then realised that there was nowhere I could check, and it would be a waste of effort. My guts convulsed and bile rushed upwards to fill my mouth, as bitter
as henbane. The doc’s head was missing.

I made it downstairs without falling, trailing my hand down the banister, stumbling on each step, mindless of it being a crime scene. As I reached the bottom I heard Dave retching. He was leaning over the sink, doing his best to deposit his stomach lining in it.

‘Don’t look,’ he pleaded, as I entered the room, his hand held out towards me. ‘Don’t look, Charlie. For God’s sake, don’t look.’

But I had to look, hadn’t I. I turned to where he was unconsciously indicating, towards the microwave oven. The door was ajar but not closed. I placed a fingertip on the corner and eased it open, and saw what was left of the good doctor, his big teeth grinning at me.

I grabbed Dave by the arm. ‘Oh my God, oh my God,’ I could hear myself crying. ‘Let’s get out of here. Let’s get out of here.’

We sat in my car for ten minutes without saying anything, staring blankly through the windscreen, trying to comprehend the horror behind the front door with its climbing clematis and pretend stained glass. Eventually I broke the silence. ‘Miriam. His wife. We don’t know where she is or what time she’ll be back. See if a neighbour knows if she works, Dave, and I’ll make the call.’

I rang Les Isles, acting ACC, told him it was a
murder enquiry linked to the other two, and that I was too close to the action to make rational decisions. He said he’d get straight over and take command.

Sonia was scraping new potatoes when I arrived home. ‘Hi Chas,’ she called as I closed the front door behind me. ‘I’m in here.’ I walked through into the kitchen and gave her a peck on the cheek from behind.

‘Don’t do any for me,’ I said.

‘Oh, have you eaten?’

‘Erm, yeah. I’m not hungry.’

‘What sort of a day have you had?’

‘So-so. And you?’

‘Not bad. I managed half an hour on the ice wall this morning, and the run went well tonight. I went from work, halfway round the bypass and back again, on the cycle path. One of the girls – Amy – chased me on her mountain bike. In think I’ll train there more often, until…you know. I reckon it’s about five miles. Will you measure it for me, please, on your big map at work? I can always go further round, if necessary. It’s not as much fun as the golf course and the woods, but there’s always plenty of traffic passing by. I like running through the woods, and the golfers usually give me a wave, but it can be a bit spooky. I’m not keen on running in the woods on my own again. Not for a while.’

‘Sonia.’

‘Sorry. Was I gabbling again?’

‘No love, you weren’t gabbling. Come and sit down, please.’

I led her by the hand through into the front room and told her that Doc Bones was dead. That he’d been murdered, and his death was linked to those of Alfred Armitage and Jermaine Lapetite. I didn’t tell her that his head had been sawn off and cooked in the microwave oven. Sonia shed a few tears, said that he was a lovely man and that she owed him a lot.

‘And you, Charlie,’ she added. ‘Between you, you got me running again.’

I made a little ‘Huh’ noise, and said, ‘I’m off the case because I know the victim. So that’s my news. That’s what sort of a day I’ve had. Now finish telling me all about yours?’

‘My day? It doesn’t feel important, now.’

‘What doesn’t?’

‘Oh, nothing.’

‘Tell me. Tell me, please. Tell me about what you had for lunch or what the other staff have been gossiping about. Tell me how the traffic was on the way home, or about the weather. Anything at all, please, just anything. Bring some normality into my life.’

‘I…’

‘You what?’

‘I received a letter this morning.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘It’s from South Africa. My friend who coaches at the University of Cape Town. She’s pregnant and there’s a temporary post available while she has maternity leave. She says it’s mine if I want it.’

I didn’t sit in on the big meeting, Thursday morning, but I heard all about it. I may have been off the case, but the rest of the team weren’t. The doc had died some time earlier that morning from a single blow to the head, same as Lapetite. His head had been cut off with a pruning saw that was found in the bedroom.

‘He was a big man,’ I said. ‘It would have taken a bigger man to have carried him up the stairs.’

‘He was killed upstairs,’ Dave told me. ‘In the bedroom, near the bed.’

‘So it was someone he knew?’

‘Or someone who talked him into going upstairs. Those phone calls to the
UK News
claimed to be from a police officer. Maybe he pulled the same stunt, then asked to use the toilet; something like that.’

‘Mmm, I suppose so.’

‘I haven’t told you the best bit.’

‘Go on.’

‘A cigarette end was found at the far end of the landing, beyond the bedroom door. It looked as if it had been flicked there. It’s gone to the lab. If he’s left DNA on it we could have him. The doc didn’t smoke, did he?’

‘I doubt it.’

Les Isles appeared at my door, so Dave stood up and left. Les sat in the chair Dave had vacated. ‘Did Sparky tell you about the cigarette butt?’ Les asked.

‘Mmm.’

‘Let’s hope the boffins can work their magic on it; then we’ll have him.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ I agreed. ‘Do you want my log book?’

‘Please.’ I pulled it out of the drawer and handed it to him.

‘Charlie…’ he began. ‘I don’t know how to put this…’

‘Do I think the doc was killed because he knew me? How does that sound?’

‘Yes, I suppose that’s what I wanted to ask.’

‘I don’t know, Les. I really don’t know. I’m desperately trying to convince myself that he wasn’t, but it isn’t working. And I want some sort of low-key protection for my girlfriend.’

‘Is there anywhere she can go for a week or two?’

‘I don’t know, and it might cause her unnecessary alarm.’

‘It’s tricky,’ he said, ‘but we’ll organise something.’

Les sat there, leaning forward, his hands clasped. He’s not a murder man, was out of his depth. I asked him if he wanted a coffee and he shook his head. After another minute or so he said, ‘The pathologist reckons it would have taken about
fifteen minutes to saw his head off. He said it was done inexpertly. What’s going through the mind of someone who could do that?’

I said, ‘Jesus Christ. Do we have experts in that sort of thing?’

‘His wife’s under sedation. She’ll never get over it.’

‘No.’

He stood up and opened the door. ‘I’ve told them to give the cigarette end everything they’ve got; spare no expense. They’ve taken it down to Leicester University. It’s our best chance.’

‘That’s where the experts are. Thanks for telling me, Les.’

He went away and I found the list of other crimes that had troubled the good citizens of Heckley in the last week. I read through them mechanically, and when I reached the end couldn’t have described any one of them. Sonia holds a
level-four
coaching certificate, and Cape Town University had offered her a one-year contract coaching their ladies’ athletics team. I told her to snap it up.

If Leicester found any DNA on the cigarette we’d have him, that was certain. First of all we’d check the database, which had three million entries at the last count, and was growing daily. If that failed – if he wasn’t in there because he’d never been arrested for burglary, or wagged his willy on the bus, or asked a policeman for the time – we’d start a
programme of testing the local population. Eventually, we’d find a match. It might be in ten or twenty years, but we’d have him. And the chances of us being wrong were one in ten trillion.

Except for one thing. It was all too easy. I didn’t believe for a second that the murderer had a fag dangling from his mouth when he killed poor Doc Bones.

‘He’s called Norman Easterby and he’s done something similar before. Well, he groped an American sprinter, back in ’99. Letitia Pringle; you might remember her.’

‘I remember,’ I said. I was talking to a DI at HQ, who’d rung me to say that a sergeant up in Gateshead had recognised the figure in the wire spectacles. ‘Where is he now?’

‘We’re having him brought down, then hopefully we can organise an ID parade. Do you think Sonia will be up to it? He should be with us sometime after lunch.’

‘No problem. She’s taken it well.’

Sonia might have taken it well, but I hadn’t. I’d have to find an excuse to be at HQ when the inadequate Mr Easterby arrived. I was pondering on what I’d do to him when Sparky’s phone started ringing in the outer office. I dialled the intercept number and took the call. It was the editor of the
UK News
, asking for DC Sparkington.

‘I’m Acting DCI Priest,’ I explained, ‘Dave
Sparkington’s senior officer. How can I help you?’

‘Oh, hello, Mr Priest. Mr Sparkington said to speak to you if he wasn’t available. We have some information which may be of assistance.’

I grabbed a pen, checked that my recorder was working and turned to a clean page on my telephone pad. ‘Fire away,’ I said.

‘We’ve had another phone call, about fifteen minutes ago. Same as before. Obviously muffled, with traffic noise in the background. He claimed that he was an officer working on the recent murder case in East Pennine division, and that it was the work of the man you are calling the Executioner. He says that the victim’s head was severed and cooked in the microwave oven. Can you vouch for the veracity of that statement, Mr Priest?’

‘No,’ I stated, ‘I can’t. And I’ll take all the necessary steps to prevent you from printing the information. Presumably you have taped the message?’

‘I understand your concern, Mr Priest, and assure you we have no intention of printing it. Yes, we’ve taped the message. The last one went to Tower Hamlets, I believe?’

‘That’s right. I’ll arrange for them to collect the tape.’

‘That’s OK; we’ll send it by courier. All I ask is that you keep us informed of any developments.’

‘I’ll ask DC Sparkington to contact you, and
thanks for your cooperation.’ I clicked the cradle and immediately rang Dave’s mobile. ‘Get your backside back here,’ I told him. ‘We need your expertise.’ Sometimes, I have to remind him who’s the boss.