Slice (17 page)

Fulton grunted. ‘As discreet as it has been for Janet and me, you mean?’ he commented, a bitter edge to his voice.

Gilham flinched. ‘I’m sorry about what happened to Janet,’ he said, ‘and for the witch-hunt that’s been mounted against you, I truly am, but that’s no reason to accuse me of being a sadistic psychopath.’

‘I’m not accusing you of anything, but you have to admit that your behaviour so far has been more than a little questionable.’

‘Well, what about yours? For instance, how is it you knew to ring Lyall’s mobile in the first place?’

Fulton threw him a cynical glance and stripped the seal off a new packet of cigarettes. ‘Let’s just say I got a call from a little bird who suggested I should,’ he replied, selecting a filter-tip and lighting up.

Gilham nodded grimly. ‘Probably the same little bird who sent me a text message, telling me to be in my office at midnight tonight,’ he retorted, ‘which is how I came to be here when you rang.’

‘And I suppose you’re going to tell me you’ve since deleted that message?’

There was a sneer on Gilham’s face as he jerked another mobile phone from his pocket and flicked open the flap. ‘As a matter of fact, I haven’t,’ he said, tapping some buttons and thrusting the phone almost into his face.

Fulton didn’t react, laconically glancing at the illuminated display. ‘Who was the sender?’ he queried.

Gilham checked and showed him it again. Fulton nodded, unsurprised. ‘Lyall’s number,’ he said.

His colleague nodded. ‘Strangely enough, until you told me that,
I
wouldn’t have known whose number it was, but the killer obviously slipped the mobile in the drawer here after making his call to you.’ He frowned. ‘And what I can’t fathom is why the Slicer would give it to you at all. I mean, why would he want to draw you back into the inquiry after taking so much trouble to get you taken off it in the first place.’

Fulton stiffened. ‘What makes you think he had anything to do with my suspension?’ he said, the suspicion back in his tone.

Gilham snorted his derision. ‘Oh come on, Jack, it stands to reason that he was responsible for the murders of Janet and her boyfriend. You may be many things, including a real pain in the bum at times, but a cold-blooded murderer is not one of them.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

Gilham raised an interrogative eyebrow. ‘Which brings me back to my original question,’ he persisted, instinctively sensing he was on to something. ‘Why would the killer choose to rattle your cage at all?’

Fulton affected an indifferent shrug. ‘Maybe it’s more a case of
his
cage being rattled rather than the other way about,’ he replied, thinking of his own refusal to give up on the case even after Abbey’s kidnapping and the killer’s threats. ‘Could be he wanted to muddy the waters a little and create a rift in the team, which would bugger up the inquiry and leave him free for his next hit.’

‘His
next
hit? How do you know there’s going to be another one?’

Fulton drew down a lungful of smoke. ‘I don’t,’ he said, then hesitated, debating whether he could now trust his former colleague enough to fill him in on the latest developments regarding Abbey. He was spared that difficult decision, however, by the sudden screech of an alarm, which tore through the building with the force of an erupting cyclone. It was the ultimate conversation stopper and both men immediately recognized it for what it was. Someone had hit the panic alarm in the custody suite downstairs.

THE CORRIDOR LEADING
to the custody suite was in darkness and nothing happened when Gilham skidded to a halt to fumble for the light switch. The scream of the panic alarm was so loud that it was actually on the pain level now, even drowning Fulton’s cursing as he clapped a hand over one ear.

‘Someone nicked both the bulbs, guv,’ a shadowy figure yelled from the end of the corridor, briefly masking the ghostly light streaming out of an open doorway.

Fulton was surprised to see it was Dick Prentice and pushed past Gilham to join the DS in the doorway. ‘Can’t you turn that bloody noise off?’ he shouted.

‘Already sorted,’ Prentice shouted back and just as he said that, an unseen hand obliged, the alarm abruptly dying in a choking hiccup.

There was a pool of blood on the floor of the small office on the other side of the doorway and two uniformed police officers were bending over a prostrate figure in one corner. The iron gate leading to the cells stood wide open and the metal ring normally attached to the custody sergeant’s belt now dangled from the big black key in the lock.

Fulton didn’t need chapter and verse from anyone as to what had happened. The fact that the panic alarm had sounded, the gate to the cells was open and the figure lying on the floor wore the chevrons of a sergeant on his epaulettes told its own story and even as he headed for the iron gate, he felt a knife-twist in his gut that had nothing at all to do with his physical condition.

McGuigan was in Cell 2 and he had died in a welter of his own blood, his throat bearing the familiar vicious signature of the so-called Slicer and his body lying on its back, half in, half out of the integral toilet cubicle. Fulton stared at the sightless eyes and the glistening muscular tissue now creeping from the rent in his throat and made a tight grimace. ‘Poor bastard!’ he said.

Gilham slumped back against the door frame with his eyes halfclosed. ‘And slaughtered in our own nick,’ he added. ‘The press will tear us to pieces over this. I’ve only just persuaded Dee Honeywell to authorize extended detention—’

‘Never mind the press or friggin’ Honeywell,’ Fulton cut in, studying the dimly lit passageway leading to the remaining cells. ‘I’m more interested in where our killer went. Check each of the other cells thoroughly.’

Then he was striding back along the passageway, leaving Gilham smarting like a castigated schoolboy and staring after him in a cold fury.

The injured sergeant was no longer in the custody office when Fulton lumbered back through the iron gateway, but the place was far from empty. At least half a dozen uniformed officers – several of them missing ties, indicating that they had probably been on meal break when the alarm had activated – were milling about the room, one actually standing on the edge of the pool of blood the sergeant had left behind.

‘Get out of here – all of you!’ Fulton yelled. ‘This is a flaming crime scene and you prats have already trampled over half of it.’

As the uniforms began to melt, DS Prentice pushed through them towards him. ‘Ambulance en route, guv,’ he said, automatically reporting to him, despite the fact that he was on suspension and should not have been there in the first place. ‘I’ve also told control to get hold of SOCO plus the Home Office pathologist – oh yeah, and Superintendent Honeywell has been advised and is making her way.’

Fulton’s mouth tightened at mention of Dee Honeywell. ‘Oh joy,’ he muttered under his breath, then glared at the departing uniforms. ‘Who’s on the front desk?’

One of the bobbies turned back towards him. ‘I am, sir – PC Sharp.’

‘Who else?’

‘Just me, sir. Civvy station duty officers only work until midnight here. Has to be one of us after that.’

Fulton raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Ye gods! So whoever did this had a clear exit to the street afterwards? Now that really
is
brilliant!’

Sharp shook his head. ‘I responded the moment the alarm went off, sir. No one passed me in the corridor and it’s the only way out of the nick. Rear door is security locked at night.’

Fulton snorted. ‘So what? The killer was either on his toes well before the alarm sounded or he found somewhere to hide until you were out of the way – like in one of the damned interview rooms next door, for instance.’

‘Well, I – I suppose that
is
possible, sir.’

‘Possible? It’s not just possible, man, it’s obviously what bloody well happened!’

Then, presenting his back to him, he turned to Prentice again. ‘Did you sound the alarm?’ he snapped.

‘No, guv, I’d only just got back from the Derringer job at the hospital when it went off,’ the DS replied. ‘Must have been DI Morrison.’

‘Morrison? He was here?’

‘Coming out of the cell when I arrived. He sent me to call for an ambulance for the skipper. I made the call, then you and Mr Gilham turned up.’

‘And where is Mr Morrison now?’

Prentice gave a soft chuckle in spite of the situation. ‘Probably in the bog, guv. He looked a bit pale when he passed me in the corridor afterwards and he weren’t hanging about neither.’

‘The bog? I can’t see him being upset by a bit of gore – the man’s an ex-marine.’

‘Claimed it was something to do with an injection he’d just had.’

Fulton scowled, remembering what Gilham had said about the DI’s accident. ‘Well, get him Tannoyed. I want him down here pronto. Also, get hold of a couple of uniforms to secure the scene.’

‘Right away, guv.’

‘What about the custody sergeant?’

Prentice half-turned on his way to the door. ‘Huw Davies?’

‘If you say so. Where has he disappeared to?’

‘Couple of the lads took him to the doctor’s room to await the ambulance.’

‘You mean, they moved a head-injury case?’

Prentice said nothing and Fulton shook his head in resignation. ‘Bloody woodentops,’ he murmured and headed for the door.

Sergeant Davies was lying on the examination couch, a couple of pillows under his head and a hastily applied bandage round his forehead which seemed to be getting redder by the second. A balding thickset constable was sitting on a chair beside the couch. He stood up smartly when Fulton burst in.

‘How is he?’ Fulton snapped.

Before the constable could reply the sergeant’s eyelids fluttered open and he gave a weak smile. ‘Bit of a headache, sir,’ he said in the soft lilting tones of the Welsh valleys.

Fulton nodded. ‘Did you see who did this to you?’

Davies automatically shook his head, then released a sharp cry, one hand darting to the bandage, his eyes tightly closed in pain. Fulton waited for him to recover.

‘Heard a knock on the custody office door, sir. Unlocked it, but corridor was in darkness so couldn’t see a thing. Then
wham
! Something hit me.’

He swallowed with difficulty, a haunted expression surfacing in his blue eyes. ‘Get to my prisoner, did he, sir?’ he asked.

Fulton waited while the station Tannoy blasted Ben Morrison’s name three times, then nodded. ‘You could say that,’ he said, ‘but it wasn’t your fault.’

The Welshman’s mouth tightened. ‘Maybe had something to do with that damned note, sir?’

Fulton stiffened. ‘Note? What note?’

Davies took a deep breath, wincing again in pain. ‘McGuigan wanted the SIO. Something about new information. Wouldn’t say what it was though. He – he asked for pen and paper and jotted something down, which he insisted on sealing in an envelope. PC Brooks, my gaoler was going off sick, so I got him to drop the envelope on the SIO’s desk for when Mr Gilham came in.’

Fulton resisted the urge to strangle an injured man.

‘Should have called up Mr Gilham straight away, shouldn’t I, sir?’ Davies said, reading the censure in his eyes.

Fulton grunted. ‘Might have been better, skipper, but don’t worry about it. You weren’t to know.’

‘Weren’t to know what?’ Gilham queried at his elbow.

Fulton steered him firmly to one side as a pair of uniformed paramedics appeared through the doorway. ‘Skipper says McGuigan had some new information for us,’ he replied, studying the other’s face for a reaction. ‘Apparently a note was left on your desk.’

‘
My
desk? But there was nothing on my desk.’

There was a cynical gleam in Fulton’s eyes. ‘So you say – just a stolen mobile, right?’

The dig was not lost on Gilham. ‘What are you getting at?’

‘Forget it. How were the cells?’

Gilham looked confused by the sudden change of direction. ‘The – the cells were clear,’ he replied. ‘Seems McGuigan was our only guest tonight.’

‘Nice and convenient for his killer then?’

The other released his breath in an exasperated hiss. ‘Jack, what is all this rubbish about a note? I’ve just said there was nothing on my desk.’

‘OK, so there was no note. Someone must have lifted it then. Maybe we should ask Ben Morrison about that too.’

Gilham’s mouth tightened. ‘Jack, can I have a word?’

‘If you must.’ Fulton followed him out into the corridor and into one of the adjacent interview rooms, where he leaned against the wall, knowing exactly what was coming. ‘Well?’

Gilham lowered his voice, but his tone was nevertheless very brittle. ‘I’m fed up with all these snide comments of yours, Jack,’ he said, ‘and I don’t know what you think you are doing here anyway. You have no right to be interrogating anyone or bellowing out orders. That’s
my
job. I’m SIO now. You’re on suspension and you shouldn’t even be in the nick.’

Fulton lit a cigarette. ‘Finished?’ he said, his tone pure acid. ‘Good, because I want to make something perfectly clear to you. Until I’m absolutely sure you’re kosher, I intend following this business through to the bitter end – suspension or no suspension. So we can either work together and share information or against each other and foul up a major police inquiry better than any killer could ever hope for. It’s your choice.’

Gilham had difficulty keeping his voice down. ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ he hissed. ‘It’s not a question of choice. You’ve been ruled out of the inquiry and have no option but to stay out.’

Fulton gave a thin smile. ‘Is that so?’ he replied. ‘Well, the killer seems to have ruled me in again and, as far as I’m concerned, he has the final say –
whoever
he might be.’

‘Meaning what exactly?’

‘Meaning whoever he might be – and that includes everyone in this nick.’

‘But you can’t
still
think of me as a suspect, surely?’

‘Let’s just say I’ve not yet entirely dismissed the possibility that you are involved somehow.’

‘Oh come on, Jack. After what I told you upstairs, you know damned well I couldn’t have killed Lyall – and I was actually with you in the SIO’s office when McGuigan got sliced.’

Fulton remained unmoved. ‘The jury is still out on Lyall,’ he growled, ‘and as far as McGuigan is concerned, who can say exactly when Sergeant Davies was clobbered or McGuigan had his throat cut? Minutes can count a lot, as you well know, and you could easily have done the job yourself, then retreated upstairs, leaving the next visitor to custody to sound the alarm.’

‘Which just happened to be Ben Morrison, didn’t it? For heaven’s sake, Jack, use what little of that atrophied brain you have left. Doesn’t it strike you as a bit odd that Morrison should be the one to stumble on it all – especially in view of his behaviour earlier tonight? I mean, why was he in custody in the first place? When I confronted him on the top floor earlier, he said he was going home.’

‘Maybe he was and then the alarm went off.’

‘But that was nearly an hour later. What was he doing all that time – reading the note Huw Davies says he put on my desk? OK, so maybe he’s a slow reader, but come on!’

‘All very suspicious, I grant you, but if Ben
is
our man, I can’t see him luring you to the nick for the phone call from me, then being stupid enough to be there when you arrived.’

‘Could be he cut it too fine after planting the evidence in the drawer?’

‘And could be he didn’t put it there in first place?’ a voice snapped from the doorway behind him.

Ben Morrison’s face was ashen, his ever restless eyes still for once and locked on to Gilham with obvious hostility.

Fulton raised an eyebrow and took another pull on his cigarette. ‘You shouldn’t be listening at keyholes, Ben,’ he commented.

The DI slipped a new strip of chewing-gum into his mouth with a bandaged hand. ‘Wouldn’t need to if I could trust me own guv’nor,’ he said.

Gilham was plainly embarrassed at being caught out, but that didn’t stop him hitting back hard. ‘Trust
me
?’ he ranted, jerking round to face him. ‘You’ve got a flaming nerve. You’re the one who’s got the explaining to do, not me. You go missing half the night, turn up later in the incident room with some cock and bull story about being scratched by a cat, then just happen to be the first one on the scene of McGuigan’s murder.’

Morrison snorted his contempt. ‘Do me a favour! If I was the friggin’ killer, would I hit the bloody panic alarm?’

‘Maybe you heard someone coming and wanted to make things look good.’

‘That’s crap and you know it.’

‘Is it? Then why disappear so rapidly afterwards? To wash McGuigan’s blood off your hands in the bog?’

Morrison took a step towards him, neck muscles bulging and fists clenched by his sides. ‘And how come
you
had Lyall’s mobile in your desk drawer? Nick it from him after you slit his throat, did you?’

Gilham smirked in triumph. ‘And how is it you knew it was there in the first place?’

‘Drawer was half-open. Saw it inside, right?’

Fulton straightened up off the wall and raised both hands in censure. ‘Listen to the pair of you,’ he growled. ‘You’re behaving like a couple of five-year-olds.’

But Gilham was still not finished. ‘OK, so ask him what he did with the note Huw Davies left on my desk. He obviously took it.’

Fulton raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Valid question, Ben,’ he said. ‘Did you take it?’

Morrison hesitated, reddening appreciably, then nodded. ‘Popped into nick on me way home from hospital to explain to Phil where I’d been. He weren’t back from Derringer hit, so decided to wait.’ He shrugged. ‘Just happened to see sealed envelope on desk and had a dekko, that’s all.’